Don Pendleton: Maelstrom

Lyons could tell the cop was about to lose his cool and he decided to redirect the man’s attention by shoving his forged Homeland Security credentials under the man’s nose.

“Irons, U.S. Marshals Service.”

“Should I be impressed?”

“No, but you should watch your mouth,” Lyons growled. “What’s going on down there?”

The cop eyed Lyons suspiciously for a moment, but the ice-cold blue eyes, grim stare and amount of heavy-duty hardware seemed to put him in a suddenly more cooperative and respectful mood.

“We’ve got about eight or nine terrorists pinned down on a bus. We think a few of them have managed to get off. It had been a vehicle pursuit, but I guess the bus took a turn a bit too wide and flipped onto its side. Beyond that, I don’t know much, sir.”

Lyons nodded, then jerked his thumb in the direction of the line of flashing lights where the police had parked their cruisers nose-to-tail to block access to that part of the city. “Who’s in charge down there?”

“That would be Captain Roberson, sir,” the cop replied.

The policemen let Able Team past the barricade and then went on about his business of keeping back the growing crowd.

The trio was jogging down the center of the street when the sound of automatic weapons fire suddenly erupted. The cordon of police vehicles shielded the SWAT team and patrol officers as they returned the fire with a volley of their own. Able Team reduced its exposure to possible stray fire by moving to the sidewalk under Lyons’s lead, and continuing toward the police line. They were within about ten yards of where a group of officers were cloistered behind one of the SWAT vehicles when someone noticed them and raised a shout.

Lyons managed to produce his badge just as a half dozen of the rear security members from the SWAT team trained AR-15s on the Able Team warriors.

“U.S. Marshals!” Lyons replied.

A tall, dark-haired N.Y.P.D. policeman wearing the rank insignia of a captain raised his arms and called, “Stand down!”

Once Lyons had verified it was safe to approach, Able Team joined the small crew huddled around a makeshift field table set up behind the SWAT truck. The officer who had called off the SWAT team wore a nametag that read I. Roberson. Decorations and meritorious service ribbons galore donned the left breast of the uniform, including the Medal for Valor, one of the highest awards rendered in the department. Lyons offered his hand and the Roberson took it.

“Now what the hell brings the U.S. Marshals Service to the Big Apple?” Roberson asked.

“We’re a special detachment from the Office of Homeland Security,” Lyons recited. “We’re here to assist you.”

“No offense, Deputy—?”

“Irons.”

“Yeah, Irons. Okay…no offense but I think we got this pretty much under control,” Roberson said.

“And no offense to you, sir,” Blancanales said, stepping forward. He knew Lyons would explode if he didn’t intervene, and Lyons knew that he knew, so he let Blancanales take the wheel on this one. “But exactly what control?”

“Complete control,” Roberson replied. “There are about six terrorists inside that bus, and we think some of them are wounded. We’ve got them pinned down to no more than one city bus, and I have two SWAT detachments clearing civilians out right now. They’ve got nowhere to go.”

“Okay, fair enough,” Blancanales replied. “But what intelligence do you actually have? Do you know, in fact, whom you’re dealing with? You have any idea who these people are, or what they want?”

“Well, er, ah—”

“That’s what I thought,” Lyons muttered.

Blancanales threw his teammate a cautioning look, then returned his attention to Roberson with the friendliest grin and calmest tone he could muster. “Listen, Captain, we’re not here to step on your turf.”

Roberson looked at his men, his face flushing, then said, “My people here agree that they’re either militants or religious fanatics. One of them tried to escape from the bus when it flipped, and we shot him dead.” Roberson turned and picked up a bloody armband from the table. He held it up and added, “The suspect didn’t have any ID on him, but he was wearing this.”

“And that’s exactly why we’re here. We don’t think these are either militants or religious fanatics. We don’t have any solid evidence yet, but we do have experience, and we think maybe we have some information you might not have.”

Roberson’s expression hardened some. “And just what is that? You guys just got here. How could you possibly know more about this than we do?”

“You’d be surprised what we know,” Schwarz said.

“Look, we just came from that slaughterhouse over in Brooklyn Heights,” Lyons interjected. “From what we saw there, we have reason to believe these are terrorists trying to make it look like some nut-group’s behind all of this.”

“Now what the hell reason would they have for doing that?” Roberson said, cocking back his hat and scratching his head.

Lyons jacked the slide on the AS-3. “Let’s go ask them.”

Rosario Blancanales converged on the bus in a cover-and-maneuver drill he’d practiced countless times before. He’d act as point while Lyons and Schwarz covered him by taking firing positions at the corners of opposing rooftops. The rest they could only watch play out and react accordingly. While it was possible Roberson’s intelligence was sound, and the good guys did in fact have the upper hand on the terrorist group, Able Team had no intention of taking unnecessary risks. They planned to play this one by the book, and they also had to account for maintaining appearances. Their alleged “covers” as U.S. Marshals had to hold up to any scrutiny.

Blancanales reached the rear of the school bus and knelt with his back to its belly. He yanked an AN-M83-HC smoker from the satchel on his hip, pulled the pin and tossed the bomb overhand in front of him. He retrieved a second one and let it fly.

Lyons couldn’t see the grenades from where he laid—the fixed sights of the AS-3 trained on the area just above Blancanales’s head—but he heard them clank and clatter along the side of the bus. A moment later he could barely pick up the faint sounds of them dropping through the open windows and the subsequent shouts of the occupants. Those last sounds caused him to smile. Naturally the terrorists wouldn’t know whether they were dealing with smoke or CS; for all they knew, it was poison gas. Regardless of what might be going through the terrorists’ minds, the grenades produced the desired effect.

Only a few moments elapsed before bodies emerged from the windows of the bus. Lyons and Schwarz began shouting for the terrorists to surrender. The group apparently figured it was better to stand and fight than to risk capture and interrogation. Only a couple of the terrorists went prone on top of the bus, others not bothering to get cover of any kind, and all of them began to spray the area with gunfire.

Lyons ducked behind full cover and quickly keyed his microphone. “Guys, we need to take at least one of them alive!”

The Able Team leader couldn’t tell if either of his teammates had received the response over the sudden cacophony of weapons reports, both that of the terrorists and the SWAT teams. Lyons cursed under his breath—this was no good! Roberson had promised he’d show restraint, but the guy’s word apparently meant nothing. Instead, he was letting his people shoot at will, and every round meant one less chance of taking a prisoner.

Lyons switched channels and cut into the N.Y.P.D. frequency. “Dammit, Roberson, tell your people to shut it down! Now!”

He got no reply, but after a few more seconds, weapons reports coming from their AO went silent. There were some scattered shots from the terrorists now on the bus, but there were no more return shots from the SWAT team members.