Doom Prophecy

“Be careful, David,” Price requested.

“I always take care of business, Barb. Don’t drink the coffee.” McCarter signed off.

Price looked at the mug in her hands, one she’d prepared during McCarter’s report, and wrinkled her nose at the black ugly sludge. She shrugged and took a sip anyway, screwing up her face at the bitter foulness of it.

“He asked you not to drink the coffee,” Kurtzman noted.

Price looked at him and shrugged. “That’s okay. I know David. He’s not going to be careful, either.”

Kurtzman winked and returned to conferencing with Carmen Delahunt.

It was going to be a long week.

T.J. HAWKINS HANDED over McCarter’s M-486 carbine and gave his commander a mock salute. “All cleaned up and accounted for.”

The ex-SAS commando checked his rifle, just to be sure, and nodded to the former Ranger. “Thanks, mate.”

“You think Rafe and Cal stumbled into a trap?” Hawkins asked.

“I bloody well know it,” McCarter responded. “But, I know those two. If anyone can scurry out of the fryer, it’s them.”

Manning applied the last bandage to the Briton’s shoulder and gave him a light tap on the back. “It’s the best I could do. Calvin could have done a better job with his eyes closed.”

“If Calvin was fixing my hide, he’d better keep his bloomin’ orbs peeled for the job,” McCarter rumbled.

“Cranky that you didn’t get your bottle today?” Manning chided gently.

“Having my Coke is the least of it, Gary,” McCarter snapped back. “T.J., did Stewart give you any intelligence on the blokes that hit us?”

“As far as we can tell, they’re the reason why Kenya let in a contingent of multinationals,” Hawkins answered. “Shining Warrior Path. I took a look at the bodies we recovered, and none of them were done up in ceremonial mud or paint like Algul’s men.”

“Too bad we didn’t take any prisoners,” McCarter growled. “I’d get them to talk.”

“Remember what Yakov said about torture, David,” Manning gently reminded.

“What torture? I forgot my country music CDs anyway,” McCarter quipped.

“Hey now…” Hawkins spoke up, exaggerating his drawl. “So what is our plan?”

“I’ll go check with some SAS lads in the British barracks,” McCarter replied. “Gary, you see if any of the Canadian task force boys know anything. If they don’t know you, at least you have the credentials Barb printed up. T.J., you think you know some Rangers assigned to this task force?”

“If not, I can get in good with them after a few minutes. A lot of Special Forces troopers are good ol’ boys. A little jawin’, and I’ll flip ’em over to my way of thinking in no time.”

“Right, whatever you said,” McCarter answered with a wink. “Just see what the good ol’ boys know about the local situation. Deep-down information that they might not have passed on through channels.”

“And then we’re going to have to find a way off the base,” Hawkins added.

“Stewart put us on lockdown?” Manning asked.

Hawkins gave a curt nod. “Tighter than a frog’s ass. His orders were that nobody goes off base without his say-so.”

McCarter shrugged. “Since when have we obeyed orders?”

Manning cupped his chin in his hand, folding his other arm across his broad, barrel chest. His brow furrowed for a moment. “Are you counting simple orders like ‘get down’ and ‘hit ‘em’?”

McCarter grinned. “All right, meet back here at 2200. We go over the fence at Oh-dark-hundred.”

Hawkins and Manning took off, McCarter slipping into a fresh BDU shirt before they set out on their tasks. His shoulder felt stiff and ached, but the thought of revenge for the injury already deadened the pain.

HERMANN SCHWARZ OPENED his gear locker in the back of the rented Econoline van that Able Team had loaded with weapons of war. While the standard gun cases were stored within cardboard boxes, Schwarz kept his portable locker in plain sight. The electronics equipment wouldn’t cause as much consternation on a simple traffic stop as Lyons’s and Blancanales’s rifles, handguns and submachine guns. Schwarz had his own weaponry, as well, hidden in the packing boxes, but the most important stuff, at least for surveillance, was right now at hand.

“Give me a preview, Mr. Wizard,” Lyons said.

Schwarz pulled out a telescope and attached a thermal imaging unit to it. The imager was one of his own designs, and had the power and range, even in full daylight, to see through flimsy walls into buildings. It was good for counting small numbers of people, but heavily crowded bars and clubs could provide a problem. Even then, if the mass of humanity was enough to make individual identification problematic, that was still important advance intelligence. He peered through the viewing reticle and furrowed his brow.

“Ah, hell,” Schwarz said. “There’s a blob of them in there.”

“Anyone outsized?” Lyons asked.

“Outsized?” Schwarz shot his partner a confused glance.

“Any giants or dwarfs?” Lyons asked. “Or can’t you cut it that fine?”

“I could probably pick up one—Whoa—” Schwarz cut off. “Giant?”

“Yeah.”

“Someone just stepped into the back room,” Schwarz announced. “He was a head taller than anyone else in the bar.”

Lyons slid into a leather jacket, then checked his shoulder holster and belt rig. In his belt, he had a Kissinger-tuned Colt 1911A1 pistol, while under his armpit, he had his .357 Colt Python. In the biker bar, he’d need every ounce of firepower and stopping power he could get. The heavy .45 pistol and its Magnum revolver counterpart would prove some serious medicine for dropping a rampaging biker, if worse came to worst.

Lyons looked over to Blancanales. “Pol, you’re not going to be too popular with the biker crowd.”

“You want me as backup?” Blancanales asked. He realized that Lyons was right. Outlaw bikers, the one-percenters as they called themselves, were fiercely jingoistic. They didn’t even like foreign-made guns, let alone Japanese motorcycles. Hispanics and blacks would be looked at as intruders, and at the very best, would leave covered in bruises.

“Keep the driver’s seat warm,” Lyons said. “And get some heavy firepower to back up me and Gadgets.”

Blancanales nodded, pulling a Heckler & Koch UMP-45 out of his case. The high-tech, .45-caliber submachine gun provided more punch than the 9 mm subguns the Able Team had carried in the past. The lightweight machine pistol was an optimal compromise between an M-16 and an Uzi, it could fire twenty-five fat, subsonic rounds, either with authoritative thunder or muffled silence with the right suppressor. With built-in rails for scopes and gun lights, as well as a polymer frame and stock, it was a featherweight, while still possessing awesome firepower. “I’ve got your back, Ironman.”

Schwarz took a deep breath and put his surveillance equipment away, double-checking his gear. “Glock 23 and Kissinger Colt. Two magazines for each.”

“Pocket a couple more,” Lyons suggested. “These guys might not give us much time to get some fresh ammo.”

Schwarz nodded and pocketed a few fresh clips. “We’re not really here to just talk.”

“It’s their choice,” Lyons answered solemnly.

Schwarz did another check to make sure he could reach his guns easily. “I was afraid of that. Get ready to bail us out, Pol.”