Primary Directive. Don Pendleton
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the explosion ripped his limbs from his body. The skin-searing heat—Horst could feel it even through what remained of the cockpit windshield—traveled belowdecks far and fast enough to turn the vulcanized rubber soles of Horst’s boots mushy. Horst heard the agonized screams of Bolidez as the flames reached the radioman.
As Horst turned the wheel hard astern so the boat headed back toward the submarine before the fire reached the steerage equipment, he heard the chain gun stop, knew that Vega no longer had a decent firing position. A moment later the man burst into the cockpit.
“What the hell are you doing, Manuel?” he demanded.
Horst had known Vega since childhood. They were well past military formalities. “If we’re going to die today, Maldo, then we’re going to take a few of these bastards!”
The familiar crack of the material rifle made Horst clench his teeth. Vega had already left the cockpit and a moment later he could hear his friend open up with their squad weapon, an Enfield SA-80. The antimaterial shell hit somewhere beyond the boat and the delay of the gunner having to reload had bought Horst the time he sought. There was no way they could stop the boat from ramming them now.
Through the cracked glass Horst could make out more shadowy figures spreading out across the submarine deck. His heart beat fast and heavy in his chest as the wink of muzzle-flashes and cap-gun-like reports began to sound from the myriad of automatic weapons being fired. A cold lump formed in his throat when the sounds of the SA-80 ceased and a moment later he watched the body of one of his best friends sail past and hit the deck with a dull thud. Horst could barely see through the tears that welled in his eyes, but he wasn’t about to give up.
No way will my men have died in vain, he thought.
Horst never heard the shot that killed him—never really felt more than a brief pain and the flash of light from the 104 mm shell—and he never knew he’d brought his boat to within twenty meters of the submarine before it exploded.
And he would never know of the legend he would create this day.
CHAPTER ONE
“Rodman Command, Rodman Command! This is a priority encoding from Gatun Unit One! Position is offshore Gamboa. Repeat, offshore Gamboa! Unidentified submarine in shallows! Unit One is under fire. Repeat, Unit One is under fire! Request assist! Request assi—”
Hal Brognola, director of the Sensitive Operations Group based at Stony Man Farm and one of the most powerful men in the Justice Department, looked at Aaron Kurtzman. “That’s enough, Aaron.”
A respectful, weighty silence followed the recording of the last transmission sent from Gatun Unit One of the PSBU. The men of Phoenix Force sat around the conference table in the War Room and traded somber looks.
“There were five men on that boat,” Brognola finally said. “No survivors.”
“Any sign of the sub?” asked David McCarter, Phoenix Force leader.
Brognola shook his head. “The sub was gone by the time reinforcements arrived. Panamanian officials contacted nearby Coast Guard cutters and eventually the word got out to put the U.S. Navy on alert, but presumably our mysterious ship submerged and slipped through the sonar nets.”
“This isn’t the first time the Panamanian government has reported this kind of activity,” Barbara Price said. The mission controller’s hair cascaded along her nape like a blond waterfall, the ends barely brushing her shoulders. Her inquisitive blue eyes studied each Phoenix Force warrior in turn. “But this is the first time there’s been hostilities of this level. In the past, Panama has blamed drug-runners as the primary culprits.”
“And that’s the story they’ve given the press for now,” Brognola added. “That should buy you enough time to get down there and check this out more thoroughly.”
“Any newshound worth his or her weight isn’t going to buy that, guys,” Rafael Encizo remarked. “A lot of the frequencies used by the PBSU are unscrambled and monitored 24/7.”
“Agreed,” McCarter said. “It won’t take them long to figure out what’s up. They might know the truth before we do.”
Price sighed. “Either way, we’ve been asked by the Panamanian government to get involved on this one. The First Vice President contacted the White House with the request personally.”
“No surprise,” Calvin James said. The lanky, black warrior—leaning on the back legs of his chair—pulled a toothpick from his mouth and jabbed it at his chest for emphasis. “I did a tour in Panama when I was in the Navy. I doubt they’re equipped with the resources to combat a menace like this. It sounds like whoever did this wiped out that patrol boat unit like it was nothing.”
“We believe we have a possible explanation for that,” Price said.
She looked at the man next to her, his wrestlerlike body confined to a wheelchair. Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman headed the Stony Man cybernetics team. He wasn’t a mere whiz kid with computers. Kurtzman served as chief architect and systems administrator of one of the largest, most complex, state-of-the-art computer networks in the world. Nearly every scrap of processed information went through the Stony Man databases where powerful computers mined, compiled and sorted the data into neat little bytes.
Kurtzman took his cue. “The initial investigation of the site uncovered some interesting clues. My team’s still working on what this all means, but maybe the intelligence will help.”
The computer wizard tapped a key on the keyboard in front of him and the photo of a large weapon appeared on the projection screen at one end of the room.
“Gentlemen, I introduce you to the Steyr IWS-2000. In the event you’re not familiar, this is a 15.2 mm antitank rifle and, as you can see, it has a bullpup design.” He tapped a key and they got a different view of the weapon. “According to Cowboy, this weapon fires a distinct projectile shaped much like a finned dart, one of which was retrieved during salvage and recovery ops. Each shell fired weighs approximately 308 grains and exits at a muzzle velocity of almost 1500 meters per second.”
T. J. Hawkins produced a long whistle. In his soft, Southern drawl he said, “Holy guacamole. That is one bad dude.”
“It’s also a pretty interesting weapon to mount to a minisub,” Brognola added. “This is why we bring it to your attention. As you know, Steyr-Mannlicher is an Austrian company, and this particular make has never been exported for purchase.”
“So whoever acquired it probably did so in-country,” McCarter concluded.
Gary Manning cleared his throat and all eyes turned toward him.
“Al Qaeda still has pretty strong ties in that area,” Manning reminded the team. “If this was a terrorist operation and they were using those kinds of weapons, then I’d say they’re our most likely candidate.”
McCarter nodded. “That’s a bloody good assessment, mate.”
“The Panamanian government’s very concerned about the timing of this whole thing,” Brognola said. “Especially in light of the recent handoff of all canal operations to local oversight.”
“Didn’t they also pass some recent legislation to fund reconstruction and upgrade efforts?” Encizo asked.
Price nodded. “Yes, and some of those operations are already under way, although not in this particular area. Less than ten percent of the structures in Gamboa are even occupied, and there’s only one resort to service the tourist population.”
“Not to mention this is the off-season,” Brognola added.
“Gamboa thrived when it acted as a township under the old Panama Canal Zone,” Price continued, “but with the return of its resources to Panama officials, the departure of U.S. citizens and servicemen living there turned the place into a virtual ghost town.”
“I don’t get it,” James said. “If this wasn’t about