Doom Prophecy

“Get on board!” Encizo shouted. He drew his Glock 34 and clicked on the Insight Technologies XM-6 gun light with the rocker switch at the front of the trigger guard. He kicked below the surface again and hoped that the 9 mm rounds would have enough punch to take out an enemy, even through water resistance. James and Encizo had tried out the handguns under water, and they fired and cycled reliably while immersed. That, plus their polymer frame and rust-resistant finish, made them seawater-proof. John Kissinger had left one of their Glocks fully loaded at the bottom of a seawater tank for six months, and when he pulled it out, there was only a slight bit of rust. It worked perfectly, and the rust had buffed out.

But now, using it in underwater combat for the first time, Encizo wondered just how well it would do. He certainly couldn’t swim up to each attacking diver and knife them to death, not before they dragged more of the CIA strike force under to their doom.

He swung the cone of light toward one diver, who stopped, caught like a deer in the headlights. As far as Encizo was concerned, terrorist season was year round, and he triggered the Glock twice. The 9 mm slugs from the long barrel smacked the killer and tumbled him backward, blood reddening his white light’s glare.

So it worked. Encizo was relieved; this meant he could continue to protect the helpless strike force members swimming for the railing.

Another figure knifed into the water downrange and suddenly a separate cone of white light split the inky blackness. More thumps of a weapon discharging underwater reached Encizo’s ears, and he knew it was James entering the conflict.

Encizo was glad he wasn’t going it alone, because in the glow of his XM-6, he spotted three men kicking toward him, knives drawn. One had a speargun and swiveled it toward the stocky Cuban. Encizo kicked forward, making himself a smaller target and spearing his Glock ahead of him. A 9 mm bullet smashed the speargun-wielding diver through his face mask, jolting him to a halt. The launched spear sliced the water, glancing off Encizo’s boot.

However, the shooting-fish-in-a-barrel phase of the battle was about over. One knife-wielding swimmer wrapped his hand around Encizo’s gun wrist, pushing the muzzle away from him. Under the water, the agile Cuban let the momentum of his enemy’s tug swing him around as he kicked both of his heels into the face mask of the terrorist diver. The man’s head snapped back brutally, and Encizo twisted free, kicking as if to go to the surface for a fresh breath of air.

The other rebreather-equipped murderer turned to come after Encizo, but the Cuban jackknifed instead, pressing the muzzle of his long-barreled Glock into the man’s head. As soon as he felt the jolt of the skull against his gun, he pulled the trigger and the water erupted into a blossoming cloud of blood.

The dead diver tumbled backward, disappearing into the murky depths. The remaining member of the trio recovered his senses from Encizo’s head kick. He twisted and plunged after his partner’s corpse. Encizo swung his gun, but the flashlight only reflected so far, and the rebreather-equipped killer had disappeared for now. Encizo twisted and saw that James had extinguished his gun light.

Encizo shut his off, as well, and kicked to the surface, making for the junk.

“Shit,” Johnstone growled. “I’m sorry I gave you boys a hard time.”

The CIA man reached down for Encizo’s hand and helped haul him aboard. James was pulled on deck by other men, as well, and the Phoenix Force pair swiftly reloaded their pistols.

“It was a trap,” James grumbled.

Encizo looked out over the water, wiping his brow clear. “Yeah, but they still got a lot of good people.”

“It’s not over yet, Rafe,” James said.

“I know,” Encizo replied. “We’ll get them.”

“Not that…” James noted. “Look!”

“All this racket’s drawn the harbor patrol,” Johnstone snarled. “Crap.”

“Cal, take the helm,” Encizo called. He pulled out his knife again and rushed to the railing where the anchor rope was visible. “The rest of you, make sure there’s no more booby traps on this tub. If you’ve got a multiband communicator, check to see if there’s surveillance equipment aboard, too.”

Johnstone stood frozen for a moment, then waved for his men to follow the Phoenix Force vet’s orders. Encizo chopped down on the anchor mooring, the sharp edge of the Cold Steel blade easily cleaving though the thick hemp.

The engine struggled to turn over and James gave the outboard another pull. When that failed, he opened the casing on the engine, slowly and carefully. Encizo rushed over to his side.

“Anything?”

James lowered the casing back down. “I felt a wire hooked to the lid.”

“Booby trap?”

“I’m not taking a chance. Rafe, get the other launch,” James said.

“Got it,” Encizo responded, and he leaped over the side, spearing into the water like a dolphin.

With the leap he made, and a few powerful kicks, he was at the other launch in moments. James assembled the survivors of Johnstone’s team on the deck after heaving the possibly booby-trapped engine over the back. Just because it looked like a dud didn’t mean that it couldn’t still be dangerous. Even as Encizo pulled himself into the motor launch, the water shook and bubbled, an explosion ripping through the inky depths.

He glanced over at his friend and partner.

“Good call, Cal,” Encizo said as he reached for the outboard.

James gave his friend a thumbs-up. “Hurry up, the patrol’s getting close.”

The stocky Cuban fired up the electric motor and zoomed the craft, much quicker and more agile without the weight of a full load, over to the side of the junk. James plunged into the water, rather than come aboard the craft, while Johnstone and the others clambered over the railing.

“Where’d he go?” Johnstone asked.

“Checking to see if our raiders left a mine attached to our hull,” Encizo answered. He looked across the water, seeing the Hong Kong harbor patrol closing in. A spotlight splashed across the opposite side of the junk, throwing it into stark silhouette. Encizo and the strike force survivors ducked down so they wouldn’t be visible.

James popped up to the surface and started to crawl in.

“Nothing?” Encizo asked.

“No,” James answered as the powerful Cuban hauled him over the edge and into the boat. “Let’s get out of here.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Encizo answered.

Cutting between the larger junks and parked ships, the Phoenix Force pair wove through the thickest accumulation of craft. Even if the patrol boat had noticed them, unlikely in the harsh shadows of the junks and over the sound of their diesel engines, they would not have been able to follow them.

Encizo turned to James as he pulled into the dock where they had launched from. They’d managed to save some lives, but too many good people died that night, and they were no closer to getting a clue than before.

But the gauntlet had been thrown down, and Phoenix Force was always up to the challenge.

AARON KURTZMAN, his beard scruffy, his build round, yet powerful, certainly lived up to the descriptive nickname “The Bear” in looks. Still, there were times when he thought that he might be living like a bear, practically living in the cave known as Stony Man’s Computer Room. Here, in the nerve center of the Farm, he was able to access an array of supercomputers and processing servers that combined to create one of the most powerful search engine bases on the planet.

Barbara Price, the Farm’s mission controller, strolled over to check the big board. So far, there hadn’t been much news from the boys in the field, but Kurtzman knew that didn’t mean anything yet. Pretty soon, unless they found themselves cut off from all outside contact, information would start to pour in.

All the while, the Bear was busy in his cave, listening to Internet whispers, news articles, rumors, field reports, arrest records, all of which might allow the cyberteam to give their friends in the field some hook, some angle that might give them the edge. They were down in force, Carmen Delahunt having gone in person to San Francisco on a promised trip to meet up with an old friend and a valuable resource in her research.

What should have been a reunion, however, was a trip of mourning. Amanda Cash and her staff at HedSpayce were murdered, possibly due to their investigation of Ka55andra and AJAX.

No, not possibly. There were times when coincidence factored heavily into Kurtzman’s life, but when someone involved in an investigation ended up murdered in a spectacular massacre, then that meant something was up. Huntington Wethers, the tall, pipe-chewing African-American member of the cybercrew, was going over HedSpayce’s data with a fine-toothed comb. If anyone could methodically plod his way through mountains of information, it was the coolly analytical and highly organized Wethers. He could spend hours looking at lines of code in the hope of finding a single misplaced character, a single stretch of data that could be the fingerprint of a virus or a worm, and not grow tired.

Conversely, Akira Tokaido, the long-haired, young Japanese-American cyberpunk, was listening to wild music on his iPod and plowing through the transmission information regarding the final hours of Knight Seven and the mysteriously overridden Predator UAV drone. Tokaido, as opposed to Wethers, was more an instinctive, imagination-driven programmer and hacker. Bear assigned him to the matter of what happened to the slaughtered Knight Seven Special Forces team and how they had been lured off course into their trap.

It wouldn’t go easy. Carmen Delahunt was brilliant at being the in-betweener for the pair, able to bridge the deliberate, painstaking methods of Wethers and the off-the-cuff, wild energy of Tokaido. Kurtzman had managed without her efforts before, though, and he could handle it now.

“We’ve got an incoming call,” Price stated, pointing to the main board. “San Francisco.”

“Able has a lead already? “ Tokaido asked. He looked up from his monitor and slid his headphones off his ears, the tinny rattle of heavy-metal music issuing from the foam-covered speakers.

“It’s Carmen,” Wethers corrected as he went to the fax. “And you were right. Lyons got some case-head impressions from the HedSpayce massacre.”