Armed Resistance. Don Pendleton
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“I can think of one very good motive,” Lyons countered. “Money.”
“According to the initial reports we got from the Farm, only twelve weapons were missing,” Schwarz said. “The U.S. military property ownership stampings were still on them along with the serial numbers, making them easily tracked, which means that most of the guns could have fetched a price of maybe five hundred dollars each.”
“So six grand for the lot, and that’s before you pay off customs inspectors, smugglers and anybody else who’s due a cut,” Blancanales said. He looked at Lyons and replied, “Doesn’t seem worth spending the next thirty years at Leavenworth for chump change.”
“Okay, so maybe I hadn’t thought of that,” Lyons admitted.
“You know what strikes me as odd?” Blancanales asked.
“The fact you haven’t been on a real date in the last decade?” Schwarz offered.
“Oh…we have a funny guy on our hands,” Blancanales said. He continued in a more serious tone. “What really strikes me as odd is why only a dozen guns. Sure, they’re military-grade small arms. M-16 A-3 carbines in the hands of trained terrorists or guerrillas can do some significant damage. But you’re not going to win a war with them and it seems like an awful lot of effort to go to just for a few guns.”
“Especially if you’re shipping them to a country where guns are a dime a dozen,” Schwarz said.
Lyons had to admit he hadn’t considered it and there was no disputing Blancanales’s point—no surprises since most of his friend’s observations were equally astute. Conflict had been going on for so long in Sudan with the skirmishes and microcosmic civil wars between the various groups, each fighting for its own power and political position, that the arms market had all but consumed the meager resources of the country. Illegal weapons came from every part of the world: Europe, China, parts of Southeast Asia and the Middle East.
And now the United States.
There was certainly no shortage of guns in Sudan. Way more money could be made sending things like food, potable water and nutritional supplements. Medications were also a big game in Sudan. An entire pharmaceutical underground had been established in the country, selling everything from antibiotics to painkillers to experimental drugs. American military personnel getting involved in smuggling weapons out of the United States, even civilians, appeared to create a risk much greater than would prove profitable. It just didn’t make any sense.
“Well, whatever’s going on,” Lyons finally said after a time of silence, “we need to get to the bottom of it so we can get the intelligence to Phoenix Force. David and friends are going to need that information in order to accomplish their mission objectives.”
“No argument from me,” Schwarz said.
“Agreed,” Blancanales added. “I would hate to think our dragging ass caused them a lot of additional heartache. If we—”
Blancanales never got to finish his statement as Schwarz shouted and pointed in the direction of a van hurtling toward the intersection they were approaching from their left. At the speed they were moving it seemed evident they would impact Shubin’s car at precisely the moment he reached the middle of the intersection. The cross street had the stop, and from Shubin’s speed it appeared the Army noncom hadn’t spotted the looming peril.
“That’s trouble!” Schwarz cried.
“He doesn’t see them, Pol,” Lyons said. “We need to get in front of him!”
Blancanales was obviously already in tune with the thoughts of his friend because he’d tromped the accelerator and whipped the nose of their sedan into the oncoming lane to pass Shubin. As they gained ground, the precious seconds ticking, Blancanales ordered his friends to brace for impact.
And then they smashed headlong into the fender of the van.
CHAPTER FOUR
The crunch of impact and screech of metal tearing fiberglass blasted the ears of the Able Team warriors.
All senses came alive for the trio as their sedan glanced off the van—the torsion created by the forces of the spinning vehicle caused their hearts to bottom out in their stomachs, or at least it felt that way. Blancanales gritted his teeth as he worked the steering wheel to keep some control. Perhaps it hadn’t been the best plan they’d ever come up with but at least it hadn’t ended in disaster for Shubin. Now all Blancanales had to do was to get the sedan stopped or at least to ditch it in a place that wouldn’t put any bystanders at risk. He waited until the sedan spun 180 degrees and then slammed the gearshift into reverse and tromped on the accelerator. The increased speed and sudden change of direction brought them neatly out of the spin that would have occurred had a trained stunt driver not been at the wheel.
Blancanales checked the rearview mirror, found his saving grace in a fire hydrant and jammed on the brakes just before hitting it. The rear bumper collided with the hydrant, shearing off the top portion as the breakaway safety cells locked into place to prevent water from bursting out of the pipe. The valves were not intended to completely block water flow; they merely reduced the amount of water that leaked out and diffused the pressure generated from the hydrant’s direct connection to a water main. The result was a bubbling fountain that came aboveground with enough pressure to pool around the vehicle and christen it to a stop.
Lyons took several deep breaths and then barked, “Report status!”
“Nothing broken,” Schwarz said from the backseat. “I’m good.”
“Pol?” Lyons didn’t get an answer and looked in the direction of his friend. Blancanales stared through the windshield and although he seemed unharmed, his skin had blanched somewhat. “Blancanales, snap out of it! Are you okay?”
“I’ll need new shorts but I’m good.” He waved out the window and added, “I think we’re just getting started.”
All three watched as the rear doors of the van, now on its side with the front wheels still turning, burst open and armed men staggered out. The scene was almost surreal as if the van was some great creation machine vomiting human offspring. They numbered six in all and appeared to be Caucasians save for one with dark skin and black curly hair. They wore camouflage fatigue pants, black T-shirts and combat boots. Their weapons were mostly SMGs with one or two full-profile assault rifles in the mix. At first they didn’t appear hostile toward Able Team or Shubin but that changed quickly enough.
Lyons noticed they were gaining their senses and a few began to sweep the area with the muzzles of their weapons for threats. Shubin had somehow managed to steer his sedan onto a sidewalk and smash into the exterior wall of a PX building. The senior noncom was trying to get his door open, kicking at it while uttering what were probably curses although Lyons couldn’t make out any of the words.
“Hostiles. Let’s hit it,” Lyons said.
The trio went EVA and drew their pistols.
Lyons carried his trusty Colt revolver—this time a .44 Magnum Anaconda with 240-grain jacketed hollowpoints. Blancanales produced his SIG-Sauer P-226 chambered for .357 Magnum. The standard of combat handguns carried by federal law enforcement, Texas Rangers and Navy SEALs, the SIG had proved itself a formidable ally and Blancanales favored it for close-quarters combat. Schwarz had selected a Model 92—a military variant of the Beretta 92-SB—that Stony Man’s crackerjack armorer, John “Cowboy” Kissinger, had modified to withstand a hotter 9 mm load and an 18-round magazine.
While the pistols might not have been much good against the autoweapons carried by their enemy, they were effective tools in the hands of these veterans, who weren’t shy about demonstrating that fact as they left the sedan and set down a steady stream of fire.
Lyons’s handcannon boomed its first report as the Able Team leader took one of the gunners with a clean shot to the head. The heavy slug busted the man’s skull open and showered his stunned companions with blood