Don Pendleton - Doom Prophecy

“Well, Ajax was a warrior. We could narrow it down,” Encizo suggested. “Ex-soldiers who had been present at the destruction of a city or town.”

“Fairly young, too,” Schwarz added. “At least the past thirty-five years.”

“That means any conflict from Vietnam all the way through the first Gulf War,” Hawkins finally said. “Not counting soldiers who were forced to sit by and watch ethnic cleansing in places like Mogadishu or Bosnia.”

Brognola kept scribbling down notes as his two action teams threw out suggestions. While the Stony Man cybernetics team was among the best technical minds in the world, the eight commandos in front of him were far more than just mere gunmen. They were eight of the sharpest minds in the U.S.’s counterterrorism community, each of them having investigative and intelligence experience around the world. When they set their brilliant minds to work on the same project, there were few problems that they couldn’t solve.

“It might not be thinned down much,” Brognola said. “But you guys have given me a head start. I’ll run these ideas past Bear and the crew.”

“Chances are they’ve already picked up on Ka55andra’s symbolism,” Schwarz noted.

Brognola glanced over to the Able Team electronics genius. “And I suppose they’d know the Iliad.”

Schwarz shook his head. “You didn’t study that in school?”

Brognola rolled his eyes. “I got a D in literature.”

Schwarz shrugged. “And Cassandra was featured in a couple of Shakespearian plays…”

“All right!” Brognola snapped. He looked at his teams, then chuckled. “I bullshitted my way through the exam on that.”

The Able Team and Phoenix Force commandos laughed as they got up from the War Room table, their files committed to memory.

Lyons tossed Brognola a short salute. “That’s why you sit here dealing with the bureaucrats and getting ulcers, while the rest of us engage in stress-relieving exercise.”

“Politician” Blancanales raised an eyebrow. “Stress relieving, Ironman?”

“Forget it, Pol,” Schwarz chided. “Ironman’s in a world all his own.”

“Must be one hell of a planet,” McCarter noted as he lead his Phoenix Force partners out of the War Room.

FIFTEEN HOURS LATER David McCarter watched out the window as the transport jet seemed to lazily amble into a landing. He was stiff from sitting so long on the transatlantic flight, but at least he’d managed to catch a catnap. He glanced over at Manning and Hawkins who were gathering their duffel bags and equipment cases together.

McCarter took a moment to check his Browning Hi-Power in its holster. He sighed as he looked at the plastic magazine poking out of its butt; however, it was a concession he’d agreed to make. The other members of Phoenix Force had decided to carry Glock 34 Tactical pistols, at least for now. They convinced McCarter that the new, long-slide version of the ubiquitous Glock handguns were reliable and accurate enough for their needs. They wanted to have McCarter share in the upgrade to a lightweight autopistol with a 17-round magazine.

The SAS veteran, however, would never give up his beloved Browning Hi-Power. The gun was nearly a part of him. So the other members of Phoenix Force had convinced him to try the next best thing. Stony Man’s master armorer, John “Cowboy” Kissinger, had taken a Browning Hi-Power and altered the magazine well to accept Glock magazines. The unit, like all of Kissinger’s creations, was extremely reliable. Also, the dust cover under the Browning’s long, sleek barrel had been modified—built up to accommodate a mounting rail for gun lights, exactly like the Glock 34s that the other members of the team were using. Minor changes, but the handle still felt the same and the gun was just as accurate. The addition of an Insight Technologies XM-6 tactical light and laser illuminator unit was something that McCarter wanted to add to an assault pistol anyway.

The Phoenix Force leader shrugged. He’d have to get used to the updates of his beloved old Browning. He still had the familiar feel and controls of the classic autoloader, but also benefitted from twenty-first-century handgun designs. In a business where “change or die” was a mandate, McCarter felt he could make a few compromises. Plus, having a reliable, 17-shot magazine for his handgun, as opposed to the old 13-round clips that had to be down by one to insure that they worked, was something that he could get used to.

The transport rolled to a halt on the tarmac and McCarter was the first one to the door, carrying his bags. The door slowly opened. Hydraulics released the airtight seal and he looked out along the airstrip, seeing the green-black strip of jungle just beyond the fence. The sun had just risen, but it was already getting hot. They stepped out of the air-conditioned cabin and onto the rollaway steps; he was struck by humid, muggy heat that clung to his skin.

“Best put on your hats, lads,” McCarter called back, adjusting his black, baseball-style cap. “It’s a scorcher!”

Though he’d felt hotter sun in the deserts of Oman, Saudi Arabia and Iraq, the jungle humidity was stifling. He couldn’t sweat fast enough to cool down, as the air was already saturated with moisture. But it was nothing new for the Phoenix Force commander and he bounded down to the tarmac to greet Colonel Jeff Stewart, who rose from his military-style jeep.

“Get in the jeep,” Stewart said without ceremony. Not a large man, he was lean and wiry, with dark eyes and a long nose.

McCarter didn’t take the comment as rudeness or impatience. He scanned the tree line again, then glanced back at Manning. The Canadian’s sharp eyes naturally sought out places where a stealthy rifleman could hide. As Phoenix Force’s usual sniper, Manning could anticipate where the enemy would most feel comfortable setting up a lethal, long-distance shot.

Manning continued to keep watch as Hawkins grabbed the Canadian’s gear and threw it in the back of the jeep. Once they were loaded up, the barrel-chested sniper came down the steps and slipped into the vehicle. The driver floored it and pulled away as the transport plane crawled along the tarmac toward its hangar.

“We’ve got company,” the burly, soft-spoken Canadian said.

“The plane’s moving and so are we,” Stewart stated.

“It’s not enough,” Manning answered. “Incoming!”

The asphalt behind them erupted in a fountain of flame, dust and stone chunks. McCarter whipped around and saw the telltale crater of an RPG rocket, a cottony cloud trailed from the impact zone, stretching back four hundred yards to the tree line.

Manning and Hawkins opened their rifle cases as McCarter pulled his updated Browning.

“Everyone else has to deal with lost luggage when they fly internationally,” the Briton snarled as automatic rifle fire crackled from the perimeter. “We get shot at in the bloody airport!”

“They’re out of range for your pistol, David,” Hawkins called out. He shouldered his M-486 rifle. Converted by John “Cowboy” Kissinger to the new Special Forces standard caliber 6.8 mm SPC round, the bigger, heavier bullet made the short-barreled rifle a precision killing machine, even at six hundred yards. With the Aimpoint scope mounted on the rifle, the Southern-born Phoenix Force shooter could easily pepper a target with a salvo of lead.

Hawkins swung his M-486 toward one set of targets. Two men were busily reloading an RPG rocket. Hawkins was about to trigger the rifle when one of the grenadiers suddenly jerked at the same time a crack sounded near the Southerner’s shoulder. He turned to see Manning adjust his aim and tag the second RPG man with a single shot from his Heckler & Koch MSG-90.

“Three more, eleven o’clock,” Manning whispered to Hawkins. He gave the American a wink and swung to engage more targets with his marksman’s rifle.