Season of Harm. Don Pendleton
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exposing Katzev’s link to the Triangle. The rest will take shape on its own, provided Andulov isn’t murdered before he can take office.”
“It smacks of nation-building, Hal,” McCarter said.
“No.” Brognola shook his head. “That is not what we do. But Katzev is an active threat to United States’ interests, and he is linked to a violent criminal organization. If that link comes to light, if Katzev’s activities are exposed and if we can put a stop to whatever he might be doing in conjunction with those activities, it is in everyone’s best interests that we do so.”
“Fair enough,” McCarter said. He traded glances with Carl Lyons, his fellow team leader. Lyons frowned and nodded.
“I do not have to point out,” Brognola said, “the potential for an international incident that this raises. We cannot afford to enflame an already difficult situation where Russia is concerned. Plausible deniability must be the order of the day, even if they know we’re only making a show of it, and we know that they know. The situation in Thailand and Burma might get tricky, too—no government official likes to be accused of being in bed with international organized crime or terrorism. You can count on no local support abroad.”
“Bloody wonderful,” McCarter groused. “Can I assume we will be traveling sterile?”
“You will,” Brognola said. “Your personal weapons, if you have a preference, should prove no problem in the case of sidearms, but use your best judgment. You’ll be issued other operational gear that cannot be traced directly to any specific distributor.”
“Gadgets has consulted with our technical team,” Price said, nodding to Schwarz, “and we will be issuing both Able and Phoenix several pieces of microsurveillance and hacking equipment that should prove useful in your mission. There’s something else, however.” She looked to Tokaido once more.
“We will also be providing all of you with these,” Akira said, holding up a small breathing mask. “It contains microfilter technology. You may encounter very large quantities of drugs and fumes from drugs, especially if destroying caches of narcotics. These masks will protect you from the fumes and filter out the toxins, enabling you to breathe without difficulty.”
McCarter reached across the table for the mask. Tokaido gave it to him, and McCarter turned it over and over in his hands thoughtfully, examining it.
“I want you all to draw equipment from Cowboy and assemble within two hours,” Price directed, referring to John “Cowboy” Kissinger, the Farm’s expert armorer. “Phoenix, we have the first target for you in Thailand. Jack Grimaldi is ready to provide air support and will meet you on the ground there. He’s coordinating the transportation of certain assets.” Grimaldi was Stony Man’s veteran pilot, a capable operator of almost any flying machine, from fighter jets to helicopters.
“And us?” Carl Lyons asked.
“We’ve traced the Triangle’s financial records and uncovered a second facility owned by the holding company that held the lease to the Camden warehouse,” Price told him. “It’s a casino in Atlantic City. You’ll start there.”
“Sounds like fun,” Schwarz said.
“It won’t be,” Lyons said dourly.
“All right, people,” Brognola said. “This is an important operation. The stakes are high. The price paid already…well, it’s been too high. We’re on the job to stop this before it goes any further. A lot is riding on this. The Man has made this our highest priority. Do what you do.”
“Let’s move, everyone,” Price said.
CHAPTER THREE
Atlantic City, New Jersey
“Kind of out of the way, isn’t it?” Schwarz said from the passenger seat of the Chevy Suburban. Next to him, Carl Lyons was replacing the magazine in his Daewoo USAS-12 automatic shotgun. He chambered a heavy 12-gauge buckshot round with a heavy clack of the charging handle. The 20-round drum magazine in place on the massive weapon was supplemented by the 10-round box magazines Lyons carried in the pockets of his heavy canvas vest. The vest also covered the .357 Magnum Colt Python in a shoulder holster under Lyons’s left arm.
Lyons sipped from a disposable cup of fast-food-chain coffee and eyed the front of the casino. The street was busy enough; cars moved past in both directions, and plenty of pedestrians bustled by. The gambling house itself, the Drifts, was not too far from the old Sands building, but still not exactly located in prime real estate compared to its competitors. It was as out of the way as a casino in Atlantic City was likely to be, Lyons thought. He looked at Schwarz and grunted, taking another long sip from his coffee cup.
Like Lyons, Schwarz wore casual civilian clothes. His dark blue windbreaker concealed the Beretta 93-R, custom-tuned by Cowboy Kissinger, that he wore in a shoulder rig of his own. On his belt under the windbreaker he also carried several small grenades, most of them flash-bang and incendiary charges.
“You know, it occurs to me that we spend a lot of time waiting in the truck while Pol gets to go out and have fun,” Schwarz said, ignoring Lyons’s attempt to shut down the conversation before it could begin.
“He gets shot at more, too,” Lyons said.
“Like I said,” Schwarz confirmed. “All the fun.”
Lyons ignored that. Each member of the team wore a microelectronic earbud transceiver in his ear. The little devices transmitted to each other on a tight frequency and had an automatic cutoff for sounds above a certain decibel level. This allowed the team members to stay in constant touch with each other without relaying deafening gunfire over the channel. Through this link, they both heard Pol Blancanales say quietly, “Let’s not wish any undue excitement on me, gentlemen.” Schwarz smiled at that, but Lyons didn’t react.
The fact was, for all their banter, Blancanales was indeed in a precarious position. Before Able Team could roll through the Drifts with guns blazing, they had to determine exactly what was going on inside. If the Triangle owned an interest in the casino but was running no significant smuggling or trafficking operations within, Blancanales’s quiet reconnoiter might best be followed up with another soft probe in which they raided local documents, file cabinets and computers, looking for additional hints to the Triangle’s operation. It would prove dull and disappointing, given the mission parameters and their desires to bring the Triangle’s people to justice, but it would be the only way to handle such a scenario.
On the other hand, if Blancanales found himself surrounded by enemies who were trying to kill him, it would pretty much be open season.
“All right, guys,” Blancanales said quietly. “I’m in position.”
“Roger,” Schwarz said. He took the small video unit from the dashboard and adjusted the frequency. On the color screen set in the handheld unit, a picture appeared, showing the inside of the casino at chest level. The video stream was being transmitted by a tiny camera set within the belt buckle Blancanales wore. The video captured from it would give Able Team a visual record they could review later, while giving Lyons and Schwarz a real-time briefing of what they faced within should the situation get ugly.
Lyons leaned over to get a better view. Schwarz held the video unit up between them. Blancanales’s words, and some of the ambient noises around him, were transmitted to both men’s earbud transceivers, just slightly out of the sync with the picture.
Blancanales was moving through the main lobby of the casino, headed toward the slot machine pits. The crowd looked like the dregs of Atlantic City, the sort of regulars, drifters, grafters and barflies who would gravitate to one of the seedier establishments among the many gambling houses. Schwarz spotted several hookers working the crowd. Lyons ignored him until he started counting them off, then told him to shut up.
“Thank you,” Blancanales said softly. It wasn’t clear whether he was expressing his gratitude to Lyons or to the cocktail waitress who had just offered him a bottle of sparkling water.
Blancanales