Deadly Payload. Don Pendleton
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navy now one ship smaller, split apart. Considering the number of drones that had been utilized in attacks recently, it was no surprise that they were getting broadcast quality video sent around the world.
“How’s the trace on the signal?” Price asked Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman.
“Uplinks are bouncing all over the place,” Kurtzman said. “We’ve got some trails leading back to Taiwan, but more are scattered all across the Pacific. We’ve even got relay pulses coming from San Francisco and…”
“What?” Price asked.
“Panama,” Kurtzman stated.
“China could take the path of least resistance and use the relays going through Taiwan as evidence for a retaliatory strike,” Price mentioned.
“Which means we have to work fast,” Kurtzman explained.
Price frowned. “Surely with all these attacks going on, utilizing similar MOs, the world would see that it’s being yanked on a chain.”
“Rational leaders would realize that,” Kurtzman said. “But you’ve got these people working on the raw nerves of leaders who have grudges. I mean, how many times have our teams put down agents provocateurs in dozens of other conflicts?”
“Too many to count,” Price answered. She pinched her brow between her eyes and sighed. “You’d think they’d learn by now.”
“The bad guys go with what works,” Kurtzman said. “And we keep stopping them cold, so the world’s leaders don’t get a chance to learn any better.”
“Check on that transmission from Panama. Home in on it,” Price ordered. “I’ve got to make sure that we can keep our government from misbehaving.”
“My eyes are wide open,” Kurtzman said, returning to his keyboard.
Price left the Computer Room and headed to her office. She picked up her phone and began conferring with her contacts in the CIA and NSA, making certain that the word got out about the uncertain origins of the Chinese submarine video. Both agencies confirmed Kurtzman’s findings, though it took some cajoling to get their admissions. Intelligence agencies were notoriously tight-lipped about their information, even among their own departments. Price’s contacts, however, were people she knew when she worked for NSA, and they shared a mutual respect. While the Department of Homeland Defense had been devised to eliminate jurisdictional disputes and information smoke stacking, the reality was that petty rivalries often strangled the flow of intelligence between those who needed to know.
Price’s hot line rang and she picked up. It was Hal Brognola.
“What’s happening, Hal?” she asked.
“The president is working on building a case for Beijing not to take action against Taiwan. Information from the CIA, NSA and the U.S. Navy has given him enough counterindication to work on, but it’s not going to be too easy,” Brognola said. There was a short pause. “Good work.”
“Sometimes intelligence and logic can prevail,” Price replied. The past few hours of wheeling and dealing over the phone had left her with a throbbing headache, but relief flooded her after hearing Brognola’s news. “What about the other fires on?”
“FARC has stepped up action, making it difficult for Colombia and Venezuela to step down. Both sides are on full alert, and it’s hard to tell the difference between terrorist activity and legitimate military action,” Brognola explained. “The National Reconnaissance Office’s notes are that northern and central America are pretty heavily masked. Electronic surveillance is difficult, and orbital cameras are being obscured by all the smoke from Maracaibo.”
“I got the same from Aaron,” Price answered. “We’re doing our best, though, and Able is on the ground.”
“If anyone can shake answers loose, it’s Carl,” Brognola admitted. “Keep in touch with him.”
“I suppose we don’t have to worry about any more international incidents with all this going on,” she said with a sigh. Price checked her screen and received McCarter’s report on the meet in Lebanon. She saw the postscript, and as usual, the men of Phoenix Force demonstrated knowledge and political awareness. The report came in just minutes before the video on the Chinese submarine, and McCarter had voiced concerns about the conspiracy they were in conflict with attempting to spur tensions over Taiwan.
“David can be scary sometimes,” Price murmured.
“Don’t tell me that. I’ve driven with him,” Brognola quipped.
“I mean, he and the others were concerned about China being the next hot spot the drones hit,” Price corrected him.
Brognola clucked his tongue. “Oh, that. Last time I checked, the average IQ of the members of Phoenix was around genius level.”
“Dummies don’t last long in field operations,” Price replied. “I’ll see if there’s anything new on the Chinese front, and see if there’s any breakthrough in Panama.”
“I’ll brief the President on what you’re sending me,” Brognola replied. “He’s headed to New York to speak with the United Nations.”
“Talk about tap dancing on thin ice,” Price remarked. “After the world accused the U.S. of overreacting to Iraq, the President calling for cool heads…”
“There’s no other choice, Barb. Either we get the world to put its sabers down and look for the real cause, or World War Three hits,” Brognola told her. “It’s world-saving time again. And we can’t screw up.”
“I know, Hal,” Price answered. “We’re on it.”
“Never doubted that,” Brognola replied. He hung up.
C ARL L YONS CROUCHED , the SIG 551 Masterkey cradled across his knees as he peered through the foliage at a pickup wending its way across a dirt road. The back was covered with a tarp, and two dirt bikes with submachine-gun-armed riders rolled parallel to it. Two more dirt bikes snarled into view, coming from the direction that Able Team had marched from.
“They’ll know we got out of the SUV,” Susana Arquillo whispered to the Able Team leader.
Lyons nodded toward the riders. “They have radios, so they’ll have reported the lack of corpses back at the drop-off.”
Arquillo looked up. The thick tree canopy overhead blocked the sky, but with some forms of imaging, they might as well have been hiding under clear plastic wrap. Her lips were drawn tight.
“Nothing in the air.” Schwarz consoled her. “We’re okay for now.”
“They won’t have to send aerial scouts for us,” Blancanales countered. “They know they’re our targets. If we’re not charred skeletons in a burned-out vehicle, then we’re on our way to check them out.”
“We’ll be answered by some serious security, in that case,” Arquillo said.
“Good,” Lyons answered.
“That’s good?” Arquillo quizzed.
“The more protection we run into, the more important the base, and the more answers we’ll get after we crack it open,” Lyons explained.
“That’s Ironman,” Schwarz quipped. “He’s a Pollyanna, looking for a silver lining in every cloud.”
“More like a Silvertip hollowpoint in every .45,” Lyons corrected him. “We’ll stick with the road, but keep to the forest. Pol?”
“I’ll take point,” Blancanales answered, accepting the role. The eldest Able Team member was at home in tropical jungles and could lead the group through the densest of rain forests with nimble ease. Schwarz was a jungle warfare expert, as well, but he was busy monitoring a frequency meter to determine enemy activity and watching for drones being directed toward them. With Schwarz glued to his PDA monitor, it was up to Blancanales