Don Pendleton - Doom Prophecy

It had been a crash course, but James had learned about Wilson Sere. Sere was a self-proclaimed modern-day ninja, a master of disguise and deception, as well as of martial arts and modern weaponry. The record of kills attributed to him was impressive, and he was known to be responsible for the deaths of at least thirty American intelligence operatives and military personnel since the beginning of AJAX’s reign of terror. Terremota, herself, was no saint. Her bombs had wounded hundreds, and claimed over forty lives in concert with Sere.

She claimed, however, that she had a lover’s spat with Sere, a falling out that had compromised her usefulness to the modern-day American ninja. People who were no longer useful to Sere ended up in the discard pile, usually in unmarked graves.

Hal Brognola wanted James and Encizo to be part of Terremota’s protective crew, simply because one of them was familiar with the Japanese language and both were needed to baby-sit the volatile Argentinian in Tokyo. The pair had been trained in martial arts, and both battled with ninja-trained opponents on several occasions.

The Phoenix Force duo were naturals at handling boats and were expert swimmers.

Brognola figured that the CIA retrieval team could use them as backup.

“This is going to turn out badly,” Encizo said softly to James, the sound of the outboard motor keeping his words from carrying to the other men in the motor launch. Across his knees, under a blanket, rested a Heckler & Koch MP-5, his favorite submachine gun. While it didn’t have the 50-round firepower of James’s FN P-90, it was still a reliable, accurate weapon. Both men were armed to the teeth. Aside from their long guns, both were packing at least two handguns and their favorite fighting knives.

Part of the reason Phoenix Force pushed for the change to the Glock 34 pistols was that their magazines and controls were identical to the minuscule Glock 26. While the Glock 34 was a light gun, and slightly smaller and much flatter than the Beretta M-9 or the Colt Government model, it was still a formidable weapon, with plenty of barrel length to squeeze every ounce of power and accuracy out of their 9 mm ammunition. By contrast, the Glock 26 was tiny enough to slip in a trouser pocket or an ankle holster. James and Encizo both had their backup 26s tucked in their BDU cargo pockets, within easy reach, but still small and out of the way. If necessary, the compact, polymer-framed handguns could use the larger Glocks’ magazines.

Encizo backed his pair of Glocks with a 7.65 mm Walther PPK. While he was a fan of Heckler & Koch weapons, the excellent 9 mm USP wasn’t as ubiquitous as the Glock, and finding spare magazines around the world would be more difficult. As well, the brand-new P-2000 compact didn’t share the Glock 26’s record or reliability, nor the capability to use the larger USP’s magazines. Preferring to have a familiar tool on hand, he went with his Walther, despite a sideways glance from Stony Man Armorer John “Cowboy” Kissinger.

“You might as well just throw it at them,” Kissinger, a fan of the .45 ACP round, stated.

“I’ve had my luck with the 7.65 mm,” Encizo answered with a grin.

In addition to his Cold Steel Tanto knife, he also had three unusual pieces of cutlery in a forearm sheath under his sleeve. A trio of four-pointed throwing stars, the infamous shuriken, rested in the sheath. Encizo’s deceased teammate, Keio Ohara, had instructed him in the deadly mastery of these tiny pieces of metal. He’d been able to save his life on several occasions by having the skill to punch one of the razor-sharp tines through an eye socket or an exposed throat.

James had his favorite G-96 Jet-Aer Boot and Belt knife. It was an old friend, from his ex-SEAL days in the Navy, a trusted implement that had logged countless hours with the black Phoenix Force medic every day, carried concealed, or in a sheath in full combat black. The black-handled, double-edged blade was considered a collector’s item, but James simply felt entirely comfortable with it.

It was a lot of gear to be carrying, especially since the other members of the CIA strike team were carrying only folding-stocked mini-Uzis in shoulder holsters. But both James and Encizo preferred to err on the side of being too prepared for mayhem, rather than end up as statistics.

James glanced at their destination, a single junk parked, without lights. It was a fifty-footer and its railing was low to the water. It would be easy for anyone to scramble on board, even claw themselves up from the water. He looked to his stocky friend Encizo, his instincts on edge.

“It looks like a trap,” the swarthy Cuban commando agreed. “Plus, it’s low enough that someone could jump from a neighboring deck.”

“These boys aren’t going to turn back without Terremota,” James replied. “And I think our girl is expecting just that.”

“A sucker play,” Encizo muttered. “If a fight breaks out here, we’re going to have a hell of a time retreating.”

James glanced at the trailing launch, loaded with more CIA strike force members, then sighed. “The file on Terremota stated that she may have trained al Qaeda operatives for the bombing of the USS Cole.”

“So she knows how to mix water and demolitions,” Encizo answered.

“Johnstone,” James said.

“What is it, Mr. Farrow?” Mills Johnstone, a brawny, pug-nosed man asked. He was the commander of the strike force, and ever since James’s and Encizo’s arrival as Calvin Farrow and Rafael Rey, he’d harbored an edge of impatience in his voice.

“Keep your men on this boat. We’ll go aboard,” Encizo said.

Johnstone’s craggy face bent into a frown. “You boys are too paranoid.”

“We’re alive, aren’t we?” James asked. He glanced toward the rail they were approaching. “Listen, if it’s safe, no problem. If not… Well, you won’t lose any of your men.”

Johnstone snorted. “Fine.”

James slid his hand under his coat, wrapping it around the curved plastic grip of the FN P-90 where it hung by its sling. He placed one foot on the prow of the launch and prepared to hop the rail when he spotted something bobbing in the water.

His body tensed and he looked to Encizo. “Rafe!”

That’s when an explosion ripped through the night. Splinters of the shattered boat sailed on a wave of billowing orange flame.

GARY MANNING THREW HIMSELF out of the jeep when he realized that David McCarter had just developed a case of road rash. T.J. Hawkins was hot on the Canadian’s heels, somersaulting to the ground as a wave of AK-47 steel-cored bullets hammered at the vehicle they exited. Stewart flopped to the ground, wincing in pain from his clumsy dive for cover.

The driver, however, wasn’t so lucky. He was pinned to the driver’s seat for the rest of his short life as 7.62 mm COMBLOC rounds punched through his chest, soaking his woodland camouflage with slick, red blood. Manning’s jaw tightened as he watched the lifeless chauffeur flop over the steering wheel moments before the vehicle’s destroyed tire snagged on the tarmac. The jeep preformed a flip, and if the poor bastard was still alive after being cored by a wave of flying bullets, Manning knew it was too late as several tons of steel sandwiched his corpse between itself and the ground. The Canadian came out of his roll and brought the MSG-90’s scope to his eye.

There would be time to mourn later. Right now, he had to help repel the sudden invasion on the base.

The transport jet they’d come in on gouted flames where an RPG shell had ruptured its hull. Luckily, the grounded bird didn’t need its hydraulics to fly, and its wings were where the volatile fuel was stored. A subsequent hit, however, could change all that.

Manning homed in on an RPG crew and the Bushnell scope atop his rifle brought the faces of the two rocketmen into sharp relief. One was a native Kenyan by the look of him, while the other was an Arab. Somehow, the two nationalities seemed to have come to an agreement of mutual hatred against the U.S. It didn’t matter how they got that way. In a moment, they would both be united in death.