Don Pendleton - Close Quarters

Russell smiled. “You could say that.”

“That’s excellent. We’ll need your assistance getting everything set up at our new digs. My people have a decent comprehension of the technical aspects, but we could your expertise to fill in the high-level bit.”

“And leave the fighting to you?”

It was McCarter’s turn to grin. “That’s typically the way we like it.”

“I’ve already informed my people that you’ll have my full cooperation. I’m here to assist you in any way I can. Consider your wish as my command. I’m at your beck and call.”

“I got the picture, thanks.” McCarter fired up a cigarette and said, “What can you tell us about this camp that got overrun?”

“I can tell you a lot about the camp,” Russell said. “It’s the identity of the people that hit it I can’t seem to put my finger on, which is odd.”

“Why odd?” Manning asked.

Russell looked Manning in the eye. “I’ve spent most of my adult life using technology to detect and identify paramilitary and terrorist groups of every make and color. That’s one of the reasons the NSA hired me. I started as a crypto-analyst for the U.S. Navy and that eventually landed me this gig.”

“So you think this is odd because you’ve found a group that can stump you?”

“You’ve heard about the pattern-analyses programs being evaluated in both the commercial and defense contractor sectors that use fractal patterns and algorithms to identify patterns in terrorist activities.” Russell got five blank stares. “Okay look, there have been lots of studies done that prove with the right programming languages and algorithms we can derive detectable patterns in the way terrorists and other paramilitary groups operate based on historical data. We use things like what groups claim credit for what

incidents, weapons signatures, explosives and ordnance composition and so forth.”

“So if a bomb gets detonated in someplace like Israel or Afghanistan or even Europe, you can predict with a fair amount of accuracy who might be responsible,” Encizo said.

“I can go one better than that, sir,” Russell said with an exuberant wave. “I can predict it before it happens, potentially help to save lives and avert a full-blown disaster.”

“Sounds fascinating,” Manning said.

“Agreed,” Hawkins added.

“So we can assume that this pattern you’ve seen is odd because you couldn’t find a predictive analysis capable of identifying the doers,” McCarter said.

“In this case, yes,” Russell said. “It’s almost like the perpetrators did it purposely, as if they knew we had this technology and would try to use it.”

“Maybe they did,” Hawkins said.

Russell expressed puzzlement. “What do you mean?”

“We’ve got some new intelligence just as we landed,” McCarter said. “It looks like—”

The road ahead suddenly lit up like the sun and the windshield of the shuttle bus splintered and fragmented. A heartbeat later a storm of metal, wood, glass and plastic blasted through the forward interior, the driver—whose chair backed against a wide metal panel—took the brunt of the impact. The vehicle shimmied as the explosion shredded both front tires. Another moment and the shuttle bus rode only on its front rims.

“Hang on!” McCarter warned even as the rear end of the vehicle swung around.

With a bang and high-pitched squeal, the shuttle bus flipped onto its left side and continued down the gravel road for a hundred feet before it finally ground to a halt.

CHAPTER FIVE

A cloud of dust—acrid and lung searing with explosive residue—rolled through the interior of the shuttle bus.

Gary Manning knew that scent. The expended cordite stung his nostrils as he worked to extricate his body from beneath the legs tangled with his own. He did a quick physical inventory as he wriggled to freedom; he hadn’t suffered more than a few bumps and bruises. The Phoenix warrior turned to the nearest motionless figure. A quick check of the pulse at Rafael Encizo’s neck revealed a strong and steady rhythm. Manning confirmed rise and fall of the Cuban’s chest before producing a relieved sigh of his own.

“Roll call!” McCarter shouted in a raspy voice.

“Check,” Manning said. “Rafe’s out cold but stable.”

An all-clear came back from the remaining Phoenix Force members, including a quip from Hawkins about who got the license number of the truck. It seemed to take Russell a little longer but eventually he sounded off to indicate he was conscious and mostly in one piece. Even as they began to shift and attempt to right themselves inside the capsized shuttle bus, the first metallic pings against the body of the vehicle reached their ears.

“We’re taking fire!” Manning said.

“Un-ass this AO!” McCarter shouted.

Fortunately the Phoenix warriors had debarked from the plane with concealed pistols so they weren’t entirely unarmed. Hawkins ordered Russell to help him wrestle Encizo from beneath the overturned bags while McCarter, James and Manning broke free of their confines and crawled to the rear and a shattered back window. Manning removed the jagged shards at the edge of the frame with a few swift kicks of his boot before lurching through it feet first, propelled by grabbing the crossbar typically used for standees. Clear of the wreckage, Manning took one knee and produced a .45-caliber Colt Government Model pistol from shoulder leather. He panned the rear flanks with the muzzle of the pistol but didn’t detect any muzzle-flashes. Either the enemy had taken concealment or they were positioned on the opposite side. Their stopping point with the nose of the shuttle bus facing the leeward edge of the road may have well been their only saving grace, and Manning thought it made good sense to take maximum advantage of such good fortune.

James and McCarter followed him out and Manning briefed them.

“You two cut around and head toward those trees,” McCarter directed. “See if you can draw their fire.”

The pair nodded and left the position of safety without hesitation.

The chatter of full-auto reports—some kind of light squad weapon, Manning and James guessed—reached their ears as they dashed for the tree line. Rounds bit at the ground just ahead of their path, churning dust and stone chips from the gravel road as the enemy gunner tried to gauge an appropriate lead. They reached the trees unharmed and dived into the cover of deep grass and thick, gnarled tree trunks.

“That was too close!” James observed.

Manning nodded in agreement and said, “We’re not dealing with novices.”

The Canadian risked a glance through a gap in two ground vines and spotted the winks of flame from the muzzle of the machine gun just a heartbeat before it stopped. Manning pointed in that direction and James nodded. The pair raised their pistols, Manning leveling his .45 and James wielding a 9 mm H&K P-2000. They opened up hot on the enemy position, pumping as much lead as they could downrange. Maybe they wouldn’t hit their target but at least they could keep the heat off their friends long enough to buy them time to get clear of the vehicle.

* * *

AS SOON AS MANNING AND James took off, McCarter turned and headed in the opposite direction with a Browning Hi-Power in hand.

As he ran along the road, hunched to minimize his profile, the Phoenix Force leader listened for the direction of the fire. The targets his friends presented had obviously commanded the full attention of the enemy gunner because McCarter didn’t detect any rounds buzzing over his head or chewing the ground at his feet. He ran toward a large rock near a copse of trees and dived for cover. McCarter grinned when he peered around the rock and got his first look at the enemy position. He had a clear line of sight, and even through the shadows provided by the tree line he could see two of his opponents.