Don Pendleton - Triplecross

Precisely where Phoenix Force was headed.

Where previous soldiers had failed, Phoenix Force would succeed. It was what they did. It was how they lived. But McCarter would not be glad to put down the rabid dogs that would get in their way. It was a necessary service, one that had to occur. But a man took no pleasure in killing rats that carried disease. He simply eliminated the rats because they were dangerous.

This was the most complicated part of Phoenix Force’s rules of engagement. Technically an attack on forces fielded by India or Pakistan was an act of war. But both nations had repeatedly claimed they were not tasking armed forces to engage in conflict in the region. Somebody was lying or everybody was lying, but “the forms had to be obeyed,” as Brognola was fond of saying. Everybody had to play the game as if they believed the other bloke was telling the truth. The absurdity of it made McCarter want to grind his teeth.

Calvin James brought the MRAP to a halt. Manning, in the rear vehicle, did the same. Through the viewports the men of Phoenix Force surveyed the small village ahead, which lay across a winding, barely visible road of dirt and rocks.

“Comm check,” McCarter said. In his ear, the voices of the other teammates sounded as they counted off. There was the slightest of delays when James and Encizo spoke compared to the transmission of their voices in McCarter’s earbud. That was the satellite delay. It was very slight, but worth understanding. Timing was everything in combat. No, McCarter corrected himself. Timing and flexibility.

Enough wool-gathering, he told himself. It was time to put things in motion.

“All right, mates, let’s roll forward. Make for the center of the village. Gary, follow us and break right when we reach the halfway to center point. Circle around on the right flank and keep that MK-19 warm.”

“Roger,” Manning said.

“Put it to the floor, Calvin.”

“Oh yeah,” Calvin James crowed, shifting the MRAP into drive. The powerful vehicle lurched forward, its heavy run-flat tires kicking up plumes of dust that matched those of the following truck.

“Ten o’clock,” Encizo said, watching through his port. “I’ve got two—no, three running from structure to structure. I saw at least one slung rifle, probably an AK.”

“Copy,” James acknowledged.

“Break left and follow him, Calvin,” McCarter directed. “Gary, proceed as we discussed. We’ll meet up back at the center of the village.”

“Affirmative,” Manning said.

The “structures” on either side, as the MRAP threaded its way down a side passage between the buildings, were a curious mixture of stone and “shanty modern” construction. Anything that could be employed to bolster the dwellings against the cold and wind had been done. There were sheets of corrugated metal and even layers of tarps lashed with wire. Windows, if there were any, were shuttered slits carved in the exteriors. No structure was more than a single-story tall. Many buildings, which McCarter guessed to be the older ones, exhibited less haphazard construction from stones and mortar. As they drove deeper into the village, the stone buildings began to predominate, which made sense.

Something struck the hull of the MRAP.

“What was that?” Encizo demanded. “It was the right rear panel. Was that a rock?”

“My money’s on gunshot,” James stated.

“I think it was a rock,” Encizo argued.

More impacts struck the hull, and this time there was no mistaking the hollow metallic chatter of Kalashnikov-pattern assault rifles behind the fusillade. Encizo grinned as James shot him a glance and held out his hand, rubbing his fingers against his thumb.

“Where’s my money?” James asked.

“We didn’t get to that,” Encizo said.

“Technicalities, technicalities,” James said. He urged the MRAP faster. “Which way you want to go, David?”

“Circle this stone hut on our right,” McCarter directed. “Rafe, get on the phone and have the Farm patch us through to the Pakistanis and the Indians. Give them our coordinates and ask them if they’ve got forces here.”

“We’re really going to play this game?” Encizo asked.

“Just think of them as very fast rocks until we hear otherwise,” said McCarter.

“Whoa!” James shouted. “Contact front!”

The armored personnel carrier that rolled across their path bore the crossed-swords insignia of the Indian army. A machine gun turret at the top of the APC was wheeling in their direction.

“Back, back, swing left!” McCarter shouted.

“Aye-firmative,” Calvin said. He hit the gas and the MRAP hustled back in a flurry of gravel and dirt plumes.

“One, this is Two,” Manning said through the transceiver link. “We are taking heavy small-arms fire. Elements of the Pakistani military are coming up on our flank. I saw a tank with a green insignia. Swords under a crescent moon.”

“That’s Pakistan, all right,” said McCarter. He looked back to Encizo. “Got that, Rafe? It’s a party and everybody’s invited.”

“India says they don’t have any units at these coordinates,” Encizo reported. “No word from the Pakistanis yet.”

The MRAP shook as an explosion nearby kicked up dirt and debris.

“That’s a grenade launcher,” Encizo noted.

“Keep her moving, mate,” said McCarter. “Stay mobile. Keep the speed on until we get confirmation.”

“David, we are moving in your direction,” Manning reported. “Coming up on your four o’clock. They’re herding us your way and we need to respond with force.”

“That is a no-go. Repeat, a no-go,” McCarter declared. “Two, use of force is not yet authorized.”

“Understood,” said Manning. “But if we don’t get word soon we may be overwhelmed. Sooner or later they’re going to hit us with something our armor can’t take—”

Whatever else Manning said was lost in the noise and vibration of McCarter’s MRAP. They were taking machine-gun fire now, and nothing of too small a caliber. McCarter didn’t think it was .50-caliber BMG or anything as potent as that, but neither was it something light. The MRAP’s armor was up to the task so far, but he did not want to push it.

They had a lot of mission ahead of them before this was over.

“Bring us around,” McCarter ordered. “We need to link up with Two and then find a quiet corner.”

“Not that way!” Encizo shouted. James was starting to turn into what was a crowd of soldiers in cold-weather gear. They were using the corners of two of the older stone structures for cover.

“Back it up, back it up,” McCarter urged.

James did so. But now the passage behind them was blocked by the Indian APC. Again the MRAP shook under its turret gun.

“Rafe? Any word?”

“Coming in now,” said Encizo.

“Well?” James demanded.

“Pakistan states...” Encizo said, listening, two fingers to his earbud.

“You are killing me, mate,” McCarter said.

“No units at these coordinates,” pronounced Encizo. “I repeat, the Pakistanis disclaim any involvement in conflict at these coordinates.”

“Rafe,” said McCarter, “get up there.”

“On it!”

As James maneuvered the MRAP to get it out of the APC’s line of fire, McCarter saw the second MRAP rocket between two buildings. More slowly, what the former SAS operator swore was a Type 88 Main Battle Tank pursued Manning’s MRAP.

“Gary, on your six!” McCarter said.

The only answer was the thunder of the automatic grenade launcher atop Manning’s vehicle. Several of the stone buildings on either side of the second MRAP were damaged as the explosions from the hail of automatically released 40 mm grenades filled the unpaved street with dirt, rocks and shrapnel.