Orbital Velocity

“See if the Highwaymen have any friends here on the east coast,” Schwarz suggested. “It’s not as if the FBI and the CIA aren’t following more obvious, less arcane leads, right?”

“It could just be that you’ve got a bias against those gangs,” Price noted. “We could be spinning our wheels for an old grudge against a particular type of biker.”

“What was that about Jakkhammer Legacy?” Schwarz asked. “British neo-Nazis who are the strong-arm behind the British Imperial Revival Society? Looking for the day when all the brown peoples in the world know their place, and it’s usually toiling for a white limey?”

“You’re fast on the research,” Kurtzman noted.

“I heard Barb talking about it with David,” Schwarz said.

“A worldwide fascist conspiracy, and they’re working out of darkest Africa,” Price said.

“Using black slaves to mine diamonds and build launch pads,” Schwarz added. “Can you think of something a white supremacist wouldn’t like more than having Africans work themselves to death for their purposes?”

Price shook her head reluctantly. “Racist bastards… For once I completely agree with Carl about dealing with them.”

“Shoot first, ask questions, then finish shooting,” Schwarz explained for the computer experts in the War Room.

A phone warbled. Price picked it up. “Gadgets, it’s Pol.”

“Pol” was short for “Politician,” the nickname for the diplomatic and smooth-talking Rosario Blancanales, the third and final member of Able Team. When Lyons had activated and stayed on station in Los Angeles, the ex-LAPD cop had suggested that someone go on alert in Washington, D.C., preferably working from street level to avoid duplicating the efforts of federal agencies who were looking at terrorist groups and foreign governments. Lyons had been a beat cop, and while he had the advantage of electronic, satellite and internet-scoured information, he had never given up on the reliability of rumors and chatter on the mean streets. Blancanales, an affable, nearly chameleonlike person who could disarm an enemy with his words and his hands, had volunteered, leaving Schwarz free to utilize his particular skills.

Somewhere Blancanales had come through, prying loose some nugget of information that would give Stony Man Farm an edge.

Schwarz punched the speaker phone button, so that Blancanales could be heard by the rest of the War Room staff. “What’s the news, Pol?”

“I stumbled my way to a town just a mile past Chevy Chase,” Blancanales answered. “Don’t tell Carl, but his primitive, stone-age cop ways still work.”

Schwarz grinned. “A town?”

“Barely a town, actually. Basically, it’s the runoff from an interstate. It’s got some fast-food restaurants, two major gas station franchises and a bunch of small rest stops catering to the nomadic sort,” Blancanales explained.

“Bikers and truckers,” Schwarz translated for Price. She rolled her eyes, exasperated by the assumption that she hadn’t learned the verbal shorthand utilized by the field teams.

“I work at a desk for a few hours a day. I’m not a hermit stuck on an island,” Price responded.

“Anyway, there’s a congregation meeting. It looks as if they’re getting set for a holy revival,” Blancanales said. “Be nice if you got here.”

“Is Jack or Charlie around?” Schwarz asked, referring to Jack Grimaldi or Charlie Mott, Stony Man’s two resident pilots.

“I’ve had Charlie keep a helicopter on standby,” Price said. “Get to the pad, and he’ll take you up as soon as you get there.”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes, Pol,” Schwarz said. “Tell Barb your exact location so Charlie can take me there as the crow flies. Need party favors?”

“I’m pretty well strapped. Just bring plenty of ammo,” Blancanales replied.

Herman Schwarz raced out of the War Room.

It was time to ask some questions, Able Team style.

The Congo

JOHN CARMICHAEL TRIPPED but recovered his balance by hugging a tree trunk. The trouble with doing that in a rainforest was that creatures started crawling along his arm, making a beeline for his shoulder and neck. It took five hard, quick slaps to make certain everything had been either knocked off or crushed, and the smashed insects that clung to his dark arm left behind a gooey mess that attracted hungry flies. He mopped the stuff off his arm, not wanting to catch a bite from a tsetse fly or some infection from a disease-ridden set of insect mandibles.

“Congratulations, you made it another hundred yards before something else tried to kill you,” he panted. He glanced back, trying to take consolation in the fact that the only things that had been after him, at least those that he could see, weren’t men packing assault rifles.

“Only problem with that,” he told himself, “is you can’t shoot bugs.”

Carmichael felt that he could relax his pace now. Too much exertion in the heat and humidity of the jungle would drain and dehydrate a man, despite the amount of moisture in the air.

He checked his satellite phone again, as if some how the bullet hole through it would have disappeared. Naked electronics, a shattered silicon board, peeked out, and Carmichael sneered. Arcado had been carrying the device when he’d been hit. The memory of his partner came unbidden, and he clenched his teeth.

“Don’t think about it,” he told himself, putting one foot in front of the other. Each step was closer to civilization, another step toward warning the world of what was going on. He checked his watch; it was only hours since the rocket went up.

That didn’t mean much, Carmichael calculated. At orbital velocities, whatever had been launched could have gone around the world a dozen times in just sixty minutes. He could just be too late to raise the alarm that death would be raining down from above.

If that was the case, Carmichael would have to bring in someone to avenge those killed, including his best friend. Raw anger gnawed at him along with the willingness to channel that rage.

Carmichael glanced over his shoulder again, looking back toward the jungle-camouflaged base. He frowned as he realized that the enemy wouldn’t give up. There was someone on his trail, willing to enter the sprawling rainforest basin to keep their secret. They couldn’t afford to let Carmichael reach civilization alive. Once he spoke, they would die.

Carmichael had only given himself a lead on the enemy; he hadn’t given them the slip. He didn’t know what kind of cushion he had. Slowing down would be the only rest he could get. Stopping for any length of time would give his hunters a chance to catch up. He wiped his brow and sighed. There were only two spare magazines for his Kalashnikov, giving him ninety rounds for the rifle, and the four magazines for the 1911 he used for a sidearm. He also had five shots for the tiny .357 Magnum Centennial he wore in the small of his back, but if it got down to handguns, especially the two-inch-barreled snubby, he was doomed. The enemy would have a full combat kit and outnumber him at least four to one, putting him at a disadvantage when it came to a fight.

Arcado’s advice, from back when Carmichael was a rookie operative for the DoD, came to mind. “Guns make you fight stupid. Sure, firepower could possibly save your ass when it comes to bad-breath distance, but if you want to fight smart, you stay away from fights. And if you can’t avoid a fight, then don’t fight stupid. But I don’t have to tell you that. When you’re in the shit, you’ll be scared. And when you’re scared, you’ll fight smart.”

It wasn’t until Carmichael had read Sun Tzu’s The Art of War that he realized that Arcado was paraphrasing the brilliant Chinese general. Carmichael paused and assessed his situation.

What were his strengths? He knew how to get through a jungle and survive off the land, thanks to his Robin Sage Green Beret training. As only one man, he was a low-profile target, making him more mobile and able to hide in smaller places. He knew he was being hunted, and he knew how vital it was for the enemy to capture him, so he could gauge how much force they had and how well-skilled his pursuers would be. He knew in which direction he’d been heading as he smashed his trail through the rainforest while moving at full-tilt.

What were his enemy’s strengths? They outnumbered him. They outgunned him. They had a home-field advantage. They had communications and could call on extra resources if necessary. They were trackers, and they had been good enough to be within sweating distance for at least the first hour of their pursuit. They were smart enough to ease up and let Carmichael burn himself out running like hell, so they had been resting for the past two hours while he exerted energy and used up vital reserves.

Carmichael was already painfully aware of his weaknesses; no apparent water source to replenish his lost fluids, low on ammo, far from his allies. Carmichael looked for their weaknesses, even as he trod through the jungle, taking care to move slowly and easily, not breaking branches or tearing leaves with his passage. He made certain to step on exposed roots and fallen, heavy branches to minimize his footprints, though most of them were readily swallowed by the thick undergrowth that somehow thrived on faint rays of sunlight that had penetrated the forest canopy.

“There are more of them, so moving quietly will be more difficult for them,” Carmichael reminded himself. As he made that assessment, he added another strength that they possessed over him. Because they had numbers, they could fake him out, distracting him with a larger number, thus herding him toward a scout who would be moving singly and with stealth.

“They have confidence,” Carmichael said. “They have the perception of certain superiority. I know I’m in the hole.”

He went back to Arcado’s words. “When you’re scared, you’ll fight smart.”

Carmichael continued his march. He was scared, but his training and determination kept him from blind panic. The shots of fear kept him wary, attuned, in a state where his body was able to pump all manner of energy into fight or flight, but his mental processes were clear and focused.

“Survive for David,” Carmichael told himself as he continued into the dark rainforest, demons nipping at his heels.

CHAPTER FIVE

Maryland

Rosario Blancanales lowered his binoculars as Hermann Schwarz pulled up behind his van. He was parked far enough from the biker bar that even the four men who were watching the near side of the perimeter wouldn’t notice the arrival. Just the same, Schwarz had kept his headlights off. It was a couple of hours before dawn, and Schwarz’s vehicle was a low-profile, nonreflective dark blue. He joined Blancanales in the van.

“Did I miss anything?” Schwarz asked. He looked Blancanales over, and noticed that he was dressed in dark blue overalls with a county waste-management patch. “Oh, the old Dumpster trick?”