Stony Man - Triple Strike Part 12

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

Stony Man Farm

When Barbara Price went down to the computer room, the place looked like a disaster. Half-full cof-fee cups rested on desks and several other flat sur-faces, and it looked as if someone had emptied a small garbage bin in the middle of the room, then rigged it for demolition. Crumpled paper lay every-where. To add to the doomsday effect, bodies were slumped over their desks in complete exhaustion.

Kurtzman looked to be the only one alive and he was just sitting in his wheel chair staring at his new screen saver. On his big monitor, animated snarling dinosaurs scampered across the screen in what looked like the dance of the sugar-plum fairies.

Price started to chuckle, but held it in check. Someone had obviously suffered a small mental burnout down here and had turned to the graphics software to save his sanity. "Aaron?"

Kurtzman turned slowly as if he were awakening from a long hibernation. "Barbara," he said, glanc-ing at one of the clocks on the wall. "It's three in the morning. What're you doing here?"

"That's California time," she replied. "It's six in the morning here." "Oh."

"When was the last time you went to bed?"

"I don't remember."

He ran his hand through his hair, but only messed it even more. "That's the problem with a mission like this," he said. "We're supposed to run strike forces here, not military units. We're designed to do the quick in, quick out stuff, slash 'em, mash 'em and move out smartly. We don't have the legs for this kind of thing."

"I know," she said gently. "But we got sucked into this mission. You know Hal. When the Man says he has a problem, Sir Hal steps up and offers us as a solution. This time, though, the problem is a h.e.l.l of a lot bigger than we are."

"It's a good thing that Katz is in Italy to back the guys up," Kurtzman said. "We couldn't even do what we're doing if he wasn't."

He paused, got a quizzical look on his face and switched topics. "What're you doing down here, anyway?"

Price reached out and laid her hand on his broad fight shoulder. "I came down here to see how you were and to try to get you to take a break. You need to get cleaned up and rest for a couple of hours so you'll be fresh."

"I'm okay," he said. "I've been grabbing catnaps in the chair when I get tired."

"You're a mess, Aaron. You look like the second runner-up in a head-on collision with a garbage truck compet.i.tion and-" she sniffed dramatically "-you need a shower, badly."

"Okay," he submitted meekly. "Get Hunt down here to take over, and I'll take a break."

"He's already here. In fact he's sleeping under his desk fight now."

Kurtzman looked surprised. "Why's he doing that?"

"He's exhausted, Aaron. All of you are, and I'm going to inst.i.tute a rotation schedule down here. You guys can't think straight if you're dead on your feet. Striker is closing in to try to find those gas rockets of yours, and I need your crew on the top of their form to back them up.

"So-" she reached for the push bar on the back of his wheelchair to pull him away from his keyboard "-it's time for a shower and bed for you. Then I'm going to send a crew down here to cart off the debris and sweep this dump out so you guys can trash it up all over again."

When Kurtzman didn't protest, she looked down and saw that he was dead asleep. Taking care not to jostle him, she pulled his chair out and pushed it through the narrow walkway to the hall outside. The shower would have to wait. Right now, he needed to sleep in a real bed.

Wethers stirred as she pushed Kurtzman's wheelchair past him, but she let him sleep, too. He'd wake up if anything important happened.

Bosnia "STRIKER?' Encizo radioed, "I think you'd better get over here."

Bolan went to the edge of the wood line where Encizo and Manning were taking tums keeping an eye on the fortress and getting a little rest before the evening's activities. He didn't have to ask what the problem was when he saw the fleet of small pickup trucks crossing the plain.

"I think they're heading for that cave where they had the wreckage of Hammer's plane stashed," En-cizo said.

"I'd have to agree."

"What are we going to do about it?" the Cuban asked. "If Aaron is right about the rockets being here, and if that's where they've been stored, we're going to lose them if we don't do something."

"Maybe not. If the Bear found out about them in the first place, he may be able to track them for us if they're taken away from here. He has a satellite parked in orbit over this part of the world, and he might be able to follow them."

"Even if he can, then what?" Encizo asked. "We're not exactly a mechanized force."

Bolan grinned. "We'll just borrow a track. They won't miss just one."

"That may be easier said than done."

"Then we'll boot it. But first I need to talk to Katz again. I need him to get the Farm on-line trying to track those d.a.m.ned things and I want to check on our resupply."

"Please do," the Cuban said. "With T.J. and Cal-vin going on and on about their down-home recipes, a man gets a little hungry, even for MREs." Bolan laughed.

Stony Man Farm WHEN BARBARA PRICE returned to the computer room, she found that Hunt Wethers was awake and back on duty.

"Sorry about taking a nap like that," he said apol-ogetically, "but Aaron said that he'd watch things for me.' '

"That's okay," she rea.s.sured him. "We've been hitting it pretty hard for a couple of days now, and the human body needs maintenance, too."

He nodded toward Akira Tokaido, who was lying on his desk. "I want to let Akira get some more sleep if I can. But if anything happens, I'll wake him."

"Let him sleep as long as possible."

"Is anyone awake over there?" Katz's voice said over the satellite link. "We need to talk."

"Good morning, Katz," Price replied as she clicked on to the video pickup. "What's happening?"

"It's midday over here for starters," he replied. "And Striker has spotted the opposition moving trucks to the cave where they stored the pieces of that crashed Night Owl. He thinks they're getting ready to move the gas rockets, and he wants to know if you can track their movement for him until he gets his resupply."

Wethers started punching in commands on his keyboard before Katz had even finished talking. Earlier, Kurtzman had been able to "borrow" one of the NRO's deep-s.p.a.ce Keyhole spy birds and park it in a synchronous...o...b..t that covered most of the Balkans. From that position hundred of miles above the earth, its cameras and sensors could easily cover all of Bosnia.

"I'm on it," he replied as his fingers flew over the keyboard. "Got to upload a program first."

The program Wethers was sending to the satellite would teach it what a Toyota picknp truck looked like from deep s.p.a.ce. On an earlier mission, Kurtzman had worked up an identification program that would work just as well this time. With that information locked into its computer, it would be child's play for the satellite's electronic eyes to track the trucks as they were loaded and driven away.

"It's loaded," Wethers said as his fingers flew over the keyboard. "Now, let's see .... "

The big-screen monitor changed to show an aerial view of a valley with a stone fortress in the middle and a wooded ridgeline to the east. Zooming in at a higher resolution, the half-dozen trucks showed up as big as Matchbox toy cars. One at a time, blinking red markers appeared over the trucks and each icon was numbered.

"There they are," Wethers said as he started typ-ing a final command. "Now I'll instruct the onboard computer to ID them in multispectra and we'll be able to track them anywhere they go, rain or s.h.i.+ne. As long as we can keep the satellite in position, that is."

He sat back and faced the video pickup. "That should be it, Katz," he said into the video pickup. "Tell Striker that he can relax and wait for his resupply to show up. When he's ready to go, I'll be able to tell him where they've gone." "Thanks."

"That's what we're here for."

Aviano Air Base, Italy "WE'RE LOADED UP and ready to go," Jack Grimaldi told Yakov Katzenelenbogen when he and John Hammer walked into the main room of the CP in Aviano. Both men were wearing Air Force-issue flight suits and carded pistols in the holsters of their survival vests.

"You think you can make it in there without getting shot down?" Katz asked.

Grimaldi nodded. "If I bend the throttle and keep it in the dirt all the way. Even a Strella needs a few seconds to achieve a lock-on, and a few seconds is all I need to clear the area."

The pilot had wanted to borrow a V-22 Osprey from the Marines to fly the resupply mission. The fllt-wing a.s.sault transport flew higher and faster than a chopper and could stay out of the line of fire of any missiles. But the nearest Osprey was tied down on the flight deck of the USS Tarawa, which was sailing in the Persian Gulf right now. Rather than wait to have one flown in, he was borrowing a UH-60 Black Hawk from the Air Force instead. "Are David and Carl ready?" Grimaldi asked. "We're go," McCarter said as he stepped out of the sleeping area in the rear of the building with Ly-ons at his side. After a personal refitting, McCarter was ready to rejoin his teammates when the supplies were delivered to them. Lyons was going along as the door gunner and supply kicker for the run. Both of them knew that the chances were good that they'd collect a Strella up the tailpipe for their efforts. But the effort had to be made.

"Here's your maps," Katz said as he handed over the packets. "I've included an updated terrain map for each one of you in case you have to walk back."

"Bite your tongue, Katz," Grimaldi said. "This flyboy doesn't walk any farther than from the flight line to the officers' club."

"You got that right," Hammer added. The Air Force pilot wasn't rotary-wing qualified, but he could ride the copilot's seat and take care of the radio and navigation ch.o.r.es for Grimaldi, and he had insisted that he be allowed to ride along. Grimaldi was glad to have the help. Nap-of-the-earth flying took all of his attention, and a second set of eyes would be use-ful.

"Keep in touch," Katz said in farewell.

As with the previous Stony Man flights from Avi-ano, the Black Hawk had been cordoned off by USAF Air Police. The crew's Justice ID pa.s.sed them through the cordon, and they quickly took their places in the aircraft. The control tower gave them immediate takeoff clearance, and they were off the ground as soon as Grimaldi had the turbines burning.

Climbing for alt.i.tude, he turned the Black Hawk toward the east and Bosnia.

Bosnia AI~'rER A NORMAL FLIGHT across the Adriatic, Jack Grimaldi dropped down as soon as he crossed the coast and was flying with the treetops tickling his belly.

Hammer was sweating in the copilot's seat. He had been known to fly too fast and too low on oc- casion himself, but this was incredible. The birds were flying higher than they were. Plus, like most fixed-wing pilots, Hammer had a secret distrust of helicopters. If G.o.d had intended men to fly with ro-tary wings, the Wright brothers would have built a chopper not a biplane.

"Look out for that tree coming up on the left," he said, trying to keep his voice calm.

"I got it," Grimaldi replied as he nudged the cy-clic to pull the nose up a few inches as the tree flashed past underneath them.

"We're coming up on the LZ," the pilot called back to McCarter and Lyons on the intercom, "so get your fingers out back there." "Roger," McCarter replied.

So far, Grimaldi had been able to keep them clear of the enemy, but coming in toward a landing zone always carried a risk. A smart enemy didn't attack the men waiting for the chopper-he waited for the chopper itself and then took it out along with the men.

Carl Lyons flicked his 7.62 mm Minigun off safe and got ready to fire suppressive fire as they approached the LZ. He knew that Bolan would have his guys out in position to secure the area, but it never hurt to be ready for a nasty surprise. And a nasty surprise it would be for anyone who took a potshot at them. The gun in his hands was capable of spitting out six thousand rounds per minute.

"GRIMALDI'S INBOUND," Calvin James called over the comm link.

"I've got him visual," Gary Manning also reported, "coming in from the west."

When Katz had sent word that the resupply aircraft was in the air, the Stony Man warriors had found a good LZ in the mountains. After putting out security around the clearing, they'd settled down to wait.

When T. J. Hawkins heard the sound of the rotors inbound, he ran out into the middle of the clearing and stood facing away from the wind with his a.s.sault rifle held stiff-armed over his head in both hands. That was the universal military signal to show an incoming chopper pilot the wind direction and landing spot.

Grimaldi spotted him and keyed his mike. "I've got visual on the Lima Zulu." "Lima Zulu is clear," James called back. Cutting low over the clearing, Grimaldi nosed the chopper into the wind and chopped the lift to the rotors. The Black Hawk flared out and came to a landing right in front of Hawkins.

"Go, go, go," the pilot yelled to Lyons and McCarter over the roar of the turbines. Even though the area was secured, he didn't want to be on the ground a minute longer that he absolutely had to. He had a phobia of Strellas.

In the back of the Black Hawk, Lyons and McCarter shoved the crates and boxes off a portable access ramp as quickly as they could. When the last crate was gone, McCarter grabbed his weapon, threw Lyons a thumbs-up sign and jumped to the ground.

"Get it out of here!" he called to Grimaldi as he ran to clear the rotor.

Twisting the throttle all the way up against the stop, Grimaldi pulled pitch on the collective and took the Black Hawk into a ground-effect hover. After flicking his eyes to the tachs to check his rpms, he nudged the cyclic stick forward to pick up a little forward momentum before hauling up all the way on the collective. The empty chopper shot out of the clearing like a rocket, but Grimaldi checked his climb before he had cleared the treetops by more than a few feet.

Until they reached the Adriatic, the return trip would be made on the deck, too.

"Tree coming up on the right," Hammer stated.

"I got it."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

"d.a.m.n," Rafael Encizo said, sniffing as he walked up to the freshly showered and shaved David McCarter, "if you don't smell good."

McCarter maneuvered to stand downwind from his old teammate. "I wish I could say the same about you. In fact all of you lads could use a little soap and a long hot shower."

"Lead me to it," Hawkins said. "I'm ready."

"Sorry. All I can offer you today is clean socks and more MREs."

"Hot d.a.m.n." Hawkins grinned as he bent down to break open an MRE carton. "Just what I was crav-ing, Meals Refused by Ethiopians. But since I haven't seen a Burger King anywhere around here, I guess they'll just have to do."

"They beat the h.e.l.l out of your vaunted bootlace soup," James said. "After all that talking about it, it was a real disappointment."

Hawkins shrugged. "It just didn't get long enough to simmer."

"I've heard that excuse before."

It took almost half an hour for the team to break down the supplies and refit themselves to continue the mission. The radios, comm links, night-vision goggles and the GPS needed new batteries. Their empty magazines had to be reloaded, and the rations were broken down and packed away in their a.s.sault rucks.

Once they were refitted, the Stony Man team took the time to eat and make coffee. They had been re-filling their canteen from the mountain streams and purifying the water with chlorine tablets, so it was a welcome change to have pure water. Particularly when it came to making instant coffee; chlorine and caffeine didn't go together well.

When they were done with their meal, McCarter gave the order for them to clear the LZ.

"You want me to bury this stuff?." Hawkins asked as he pointed to the pile of debris left over from the ammunition and rations packing.

"Leave it. We'll be long gone from here by the time anyone finds it. And there isn't anything in there that can ID us anyway."

As with everything else that the commandos took with them into battle, the resupply load had been sterilized. Nothing was marked to indicate its country of origin, and all of the labeling was done in multiple languages to include Arabic and Chinese. Even the MREs had been multinationaled.

"Now we need to find a vehicle to borrow," Bo-lan told Encizo.