Don Pendleton - Unconventional Warfare

It had been easier to coordinate a blacked-out operation through local Congolese forces than to bring international authorities operating in the Brazzaville theater in on the loop because the deployment had been so frenzied. Hawkins accepted the situation without complaint.

Inside the armored vehicle the team sat crammed together, muzzles up toward the ceiling. Rafael Encizo sat behind the driver’s seat holding a Hawk MM-1 multiround 40 mm grenade launcher. As Kabila settled in the front passenger seat beside his driver, he looked back at the heavily armed crew with a frown.

“I am in charge of my vehicle during transport and thus am commanding officer for this phase of the operation,” he said, voice grave. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist that you put your weapon safeties on.”

McCarter leaned forward, shifting his M-4/M-203 combo to one side as he did, the barrel passing inches from Kabila’s face. He held up his trigger finger in front of the Congolese colonel’s face and smiled coldly.

“Sorry, mate,” he said. “I know you’ve heard this before but—” he wiggled his trigger finger back in forth in front of Kabila’s eyes “—this is my safety.” He settled back into his seat. “End of story.”

Kabila turned around, face gray with fury. He slapped the dash of the vehicle and curtly ordered his driver to pull away from the tarmac of the helipad. As the vehicle rolled out into traffic he forced himself to calm. It was as the old African proverb, claimed by the English as their own, said: who laughs last laughs best, and Colonel Kabila planned to be laughing very hard indeed at the end of the next few hours.

PHOENIX FORCE REMAINED alert as the Dzik-3 left the main traffic thoroughfares surrounding the airport and pushed deeper into the city. They rolled through Congolese national army and police checkpoints without a problem, but as the buildings grew more congested and run-down and the signs of the recent civil conflicts became more prolific—in the form of bullet-riddled walls, the charred hulks of burned-out vehicles, gaping window frames and missing doors—so did flags and graffiti proclaiming rebel slogans and allegiance.

Now the checkpoints were manned by local force police officers who all wore subtle indicators of tribal allegiance in conjunction with their official uniforms. Phoenix Force was entering a section of the city where centralized authority had lost its influence and clan leaders and tribal warlords were the de facto power structures.

The checkpoint stops became longer and the night grew deeper. In the backseat Gary Manning used a GPS-program-enhanced PDA to plot their course as they moved through the city. After a moment he froze the screen and leaned forward to tap McCarter on the shoulder. “We’re here,” he said.

McCarter nodded and looked out a side window. They had entered an era of urban blight forming a squalid industrial bridge between two more heavily populated sections of the city. The dull brown waters of the Niger River cut through concrete banks lined with empty and burned-out factories, manufacturing plants and abandoned electrical substations. A rusting crane sat in a weed-choked parking lot like a forgotten Jurassic beast of steel and iron.

“Pull over,” McCarter told Kabila.

The man looked back in confusion. “What—we still have two more checkpoints to go before the rendezvous point,” he protested.

“Pull over. We have our own ops plan.” McCarter repeated. “When we give the signal, you and the chase vehicle can meet us at the RP. We’ll insert on foot from here.”

“This isn’t what I was told—” Kabila sputtered.

“Pull over.”

Kabila scowled, then barked an order to his driver, who immediately guided the big 4.5-ton vehicle over to the side of the road. They rolled to a stop and Phoenix Force wasted little time scurrying out of the vehicle, weapons up.

Before he slammed the door shut, McCarter repeated his instructions to the Congolese police officer. “Get to the RP. Link up with the chase vehicle and hold position as instructed. When I come across the radio we’ll be shaking ass out of the AO so expect hot. Understood?”

Kabila nodded. His face was impassive as he replied, “I understand perfectly, Englishman.”

“Good,” McCarter answered, and slammed the Dzik-3’s door closed.

As soon as the man was gone Kabila had his cell phone out. He could feel his laughter forming in his belly and he bit it down. He’d save it for when he was looking at the bloody corpses of the Western commandos.

Managua, Nicaragua

ABLE TEAM STEPPED OUT into the equatorial sunlight from the cramped depths of the customs station on the far side of the international airport. Hermann Schwarz’s eye was swollen slightly and he had a bemused look as he used a free hand to rub at his sore ribs.

He turned toward Lyons, who was squinting momentarily against the hard yellow light of the sun. “Next time you play the asshole,” he said.

Blancanales chuckled to himself. “It does come more natural to you,” he pointed out.

Lyons shrugged and slid on his shades. He stood in the doorway of the customs station and smiled. “Quick, use your cell phone to take a picture of me.”

Pretending to laugh along with the joke like ugly American tourists, Blancanales quickly opened his Samsung cell phone and thumbed on the video function. He started rolling, capturing the scene.

Immediately he saw a cadaverous man in a business suit watching them from beside their interrogator as he pointed the camera over Lyons’s bulky shoulder. The man frowned as he saw the Americans taking pictures, and then he turned and walked away.

“Something to remember Managua by,” Schwarz said loudly.

“Oh, that was great acting,” Lyons muttered, walking forward.

“Thank you. Thank you very much.”

“Did you get it?” Lyons asked.

“You mean, tall, skinny and corpse-looking?” Blancanales asked. “You betcha. I’ll see what Aaron’s crew can do with it.” He hit a button and fired off the short video clip to a secure server service that would eventually feed it into Stony Man.

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

THE EMAIL TRAVELED with digital speed through security links and into Carmen Delahunt’s computer. Seeing the priority message beeping an alert, she quickly raised her sensory-glove-encased hand to her left and pantomimed clicking on the link with a finger. Inside the screen of her VR uplink helmet the short cell phone video played out.

“Just got something from Pol,” she said. “They want an ID on what appears to be a civilian who’s buddy-buddy with Nicaraguan law-enforcement officials.”

From behind her in the Annex’s Computer Room Aaron Kurtzman’s gruff voice instructed, “Send it over to Hunt’s station. His link to the Roadrunner is more configured to that kind of search than your infiltration and investigation research algorithms.”

The head of the Stony Man cyberteam referred to the blade farm IBM Roadrunner supercomputer used as the primary workhorse of the Farm. The IBM Roadrunner was considered the fastest supercomputer in the world, though Kurtzman, much like the NSA, preferred using a Blue Gene/L archetype for defensive counterhacking operations. The Stony Man Roadrunner model was every bit as efficient as the one in Las Alamos Laboratories, provided them digital espionage options equal to any agency in the American government or overseas.

Tapping the stem of a briarwood pipe against his teeth, Professor Huntington Wethers froze the video image on a single shot, then transported it to a separate program designed to identify the anatomical features on the picture then translate them into a succinct binary code. He ran the program four times to include variables for age, angle and articulation, then ran a blending-sum algorithm to predict changes for bad photography, low light and resolution obscurity. He grunted softly before firing off double emails of the completed project, one back to Carmen Delahunt and the other to Akira Tokaido.