Don Pendleton - Atomic Fracture

Blancanales laughed. “Hey,” he said, “I played ‘Pong’ when I was a kid.”

Schwarz laughed out loud. “Pol, you do realize that saying you played ‘Pong’ is paramount to saying you played football in the days of leather helmets with no face masks, don’t you?”

He got no answer.

The Able Team leader drove on, keeping a close eye on the FBI car ahead of him and following the directions of the robotic voice of the GPS.

The highway had begun to climb upward and the Able Team leader could already note the difference in the amount of oxygen in the air. The lead FBI car took an exit, came to a four-way stop, and then turned onto an asphalt road. Now the gradual climb upward became even steeper. In the distance, Lyons could see the snowcapped tip of Pike’s Peak. They passed a sign pointing them back down the mountain where they’d find the Garden of the Gods and drove on, at first passing aspen trees, which grew at the lowest altitude that would sustain them, then encountering thicker groves as they continued to rise.

Fifteen minutes later the car carrying Arthaud and Taylor slowed, then turned onto a gravel road. Dust blew from the rear tires, rising into the air in a steady cloud as Arthaud led them around a sharp curve. Almost as soon as Lyons had made the curve in the second vehicle, he saw the gate.

Armed and uniformed men stood immediately in front of it. And through the window of the guard shack in the middle of the road they could see the heads of more guards.

Arthaud brought his Chevy to a halt and Lyons pulled in behind him as one of the guards moved forward toward the driver’s window. From a distance, it appeared to Lyons that he wore a standard flak jacket in woodland camo with front-mounted ammo pouches. On his head was a black beret but the insignia was on the far side of the slanted hat and all but invisible. He carried a clipboard in one hand, a ballpoint pen in the other, with his M-4 slung over his shoulder. The carry was more comfortable than the assault position, but took longer to bring into play. But the man’s hands were busy with a clipboard and a ballpoint pen anyway, and he was relying on the other guards to keep them covered until their identities had been established.

And keep the men in the Chevys covered, they did. At least a half dozen 5.56 mm carbines were pointing directly toward the two vehicles. The Able Team leader knew that in less than half a second they could be blasted into more pieces than the Titanic when it finally sank.

The conversation between Arthaud and the guard was brief. A second later Arthaud exited his car and walked back to Lyons.

The Able Team leader pushed the button, lowering the window at his side.

“Looks like you were right earlier when you said this is as far as we go,” the burly man in the high-dollar suit said. “They’ve got orders to let you guys in. But not us.”

“Thanks for leading the way here,” Lyons said.

“No problem,” said Arthaud. “Nice change from pushing paper.” His smile still looked as if he meant every word he said.

Lyons waited as Arthaud got back in his car and pulled through the gate. As the automobile that had brought them here to this first line of defense made a U-turn, he pulled up to the guard house. The same man in the black beret stepped forward as Arthaud and Taylor drove out on the other side of the guard shack.

Now, as the uniformed man leaned down toward the open driver’s side window, Lyons could see the patch of the U.S. 75th Ranger Regiment on his beret.

That slightly surprised the Able Team leader. The 75th had seen its share of action during World War II, Korea, Vietnam and other, smaller wars. But it had been redesigned in 1973 to be a highly mobile light infantry unit capable of operating in any part of the world at a moment’s notice. They’d been active most recently in Bosnia, then Iraq and Afghanistan.

Guard duty, it seemed to Lyons, even at a nuclear storage facility, was a waste of talent and training. It was like putting an NFL coach who’d won the Super Bowl in charge of training a junior high football team.

Carl Lyons might have been less loquacious than his fellow Able Team warriors but he had never been the timid sort. As he held up the FBI credentials supplied by Brognola, he said bluntly, “That patch tells me you’re 75th. So I’ve gotta ask. Why are you guys even here? You’re pulling guard duty any rent-a-cop could manage.”

The Ranger had taken Lyons’s credentials and was studying them. But the comment made him laugh. “We just got here yesterday,” he said. “All we know is that something extraordinary has happened. We’re on high alert. And my guess is it’s the same thing that brings you guys here, Special Agent Coffman.” He handed the credential wallet back through the window. “Care to share that intel with me?”

“Sorry,” Lyons said as he replaced the black leather case inside his suit coat. “I hate to sound like the typical, pompous FBI jerk-off who wants everything you know, then answers all of your questions with, ‘We’re not at liberty to disclose that information.’ But I’m afraid that’s what I’ve got to do.” He waited for a reaction, remembering how badly he’d wanted to punch out several arrogant FBI agents when he’d still been a LAPD detective. There had been one Fed whose face he actually had smashed in. That had bought him a seemingly endless stream of interrogation by both the FBI and the LAPD Internal Affairs goons, and almost made him wish he’d just knocked himself out instead of enduring the tedium brought on by the cops who go after cops.The Ranger nodded. “No problem,” he said. “That’s pretty much the answer I was expecting,” he said, grinning. “And you’re right.”

Lyons returned the facial expression with one of his own rare smiles. But he was soon to find out that he’d misinterpreted the other man’s words. “Thanks for understanding,” he said.

“Oh, I didn’t say I understood,” the Army Ranger said. “I was just agreeing that you’re a typical pompous FBI jerk-off.”

Lyons didn’t feel the rush of anger he might have expected to overcome him. Instead he felt sympathy—no, empathy—for the Ranger at the gate. He had walked in that man’s combat boots and knew how they felt.

“Okay, then,” said the Ranger. “You’ve still got retina and facial recognition to go through at the front door of the main offices. But I’ll have a man lead you there.” He straightened and Lyons rolled up his window. The Able Team leader pulled through the gate as a green Army jeep, driven by another man wearing Ranger regalia, pulled out in front of him. Next to him, he could see Schwarz. In the rearview mirror, Blancanales’s face stared back at him. Both looked as if they were doing their best not to laugh.

“Ever think about switching to the diplomatic corps, Ironman?” Schwarz asked. “You’d be a natural. If I was President, I’d like, make you ambassador to North Korea or Iran or someplace where your smooth and disarming charm would end the world’s problems.”

“I thought he controlled himself pretty well,” said Blancanales. “Considering what we both know was going through his mind.”

Lyons shook his head as he followed the jeep. “That’s enough,” he said. “We’ve got a mission ahead of us. Let’s get our minds on that.”

The dirt road took a sharp curve and suddenly the front of a structure built into the side of a mountain appeared.

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