Sky Sentinels. Don Pendleton
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Concorde is going to get us where we’re going in about half the time we’d make in a regular plane. So if I was you, I’d take advantage of that time to catch up a little more on your sleep.” Without another word, the director of Stony Man Farm leaned back in his recliner and closed his eyes.
So did the men of Phoenix Force.
And when they opened them again, the Concorde’s wheels were touching down on the runway of a U.S. military base in eastern Iraq.
C HARLIE M OTT was a long time Stony Man pilot. So it was no big trick for Mott to set one of the newly acquired Concordes down on the runway in Oklahoma City. Officials at Will Rogers World Airport had already been contacted by the Justice Department, and the sight of the odd, bird-beak-looking aircraft brought out only a mild curiosity on the parts of the Will Rogers’s crewmen who greeted him.
“I wondered what was going to happen to these things after the company went broke,” said a white-bearded mechanic in coveralls when Mott walked down the folding staircase. “Who are you with now?”
“The Department of Justice,” Mott lied.
“That the truth?” asked the man with the beard.
“Uh-uh.” Mott smiled. “But if I told you the truth, I’d have to take you up in it and drop you out at about forty thousand feet.” He paused and adjusted his California Angels baseball cap. “Without a parachute.”
The man with the white beard laughed. The noise conveyed not only humor but a tiny bit of nervousness, as well.
Silence fell over the tarmac until an Oklahoma City PD sedan, lights flashing and siren blaring, suddenly appeared and began crossing the runways toward the Concorde. “Ah,” Mott said. “My passengers have arrived.”
The marked unit screeched to a halt and Lyons, Blancanales and Schwarz got out.
“Need a lift?” Mott asked as they hurried his way.
“Yeah,” Lyons said. “But where did you get this thing?” He indicated the Concorde with his head.
“Hal bought a couple of them,” Mott said. “I think you’ll be impressed.” Without another word, he turned and hurried up the steps. The men of Able Team followed.
As they taxied down the runway, Lyons said, “Hal’s supposed to brief us in the air. Any idea where we’re going?”
Mott pulled a headset over his ears and began fiddling with the Concorde’s control panel. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I know exactly where you’re going. To a suburb of Kansas City called Shawnee Mission.”
The Concorde left the ground looking like some kind of a determined predatory bird in flight.
As the trio moved to the reclining chairs bolted to the deck in the back of the plane, Lyons pulled his satellite phone from a pocket. Once seated, Lyons tapped in the number to Stony Man Farm.
A second later Hal Brognola was on the line. And the conversation turned serious.
Deadly serious.
A LL EYES on the ground rose to the air then fell to the runway with the Concorde as it landed at the U.S. military base near Mandali, Iraq.
They stayed glued to the men of Phoenix Force as the five men—all dressed in blacksuits and wearing side arms, as well as carrying assault rifles—walked down the steps to the ground.
McCarter started to lead them toward the buildings in the distance. But before he could even take a step in that direction he saw two jeeps racing toward them. Both sets of tires screeched to a halt in front of the Phoenix Force warriors, and the drivers—both wearing 101st Airborne patches on their sleeves—motioned them to hop aboard.
A few minutes later they were in front of a desk with a nameplate that read Colonel L. D. Brown. They shook hands all the way around, then dropped into five folding chairs that had obviously been brought in just for this meeting.
Colonel Brown might as well have had U.S. Army stamped on his forehead. Although obviously around sixty years old, he still had a full head of hair flattened into a white buzz cut. His face was worn and wrinkled, reminding McCarter of a dry creek bed, and although he was only around five feet six or seven inches tall and maybe 140 pounds, the muscles in his tattooed arms, which extended out of his short-sleeved uniform shirt, would have rivaled those of Popeye the Sailor.
Brown had started to speak when a sergeant suddenly opened the door and ushered a man dressed in robes and a kaffiyeh into the room. He looked up at the colonel to see what his next move should be, and Brown raised a hand and waved him in.
The door to the office closed behind him.
“Gentlemen,” Brown said to the men of Phoenix Force. “Say hello to Adel Spengha. He also goes by Desert Rat. And he’s worked with the CIA for years.”
Another round of handshakes took place and then Brown said, “Rat here, can get you through the mountains and into Iran faster and safer than anybody I know. But that doesn’t mean you won’t encounter any of the enemy.”
The man called Rat had taken a seat in another of the folding chairs, and now he opened his mouth. Speaking in near-unaccented English he said, “The Zagros Mountains, which border Iraq and Iran, are filled with Iran’s regular troops, brigands and a tribe of Kurds who got caught in the middle of things when the war first started. All are dangerous.” He paused a second, then added, “I must be honest. It would be much wiser not to go.”
“That depends on how important a chap’s mission is, I suppose,” McCarter answered him. “We don’t always have the luxury of doing the smart thing. Sometimes we have to do the necessary thing.”
The Rat nodded his head. “Yes,” he said. “I understand. So, when do you want to get started?”
“There’s no time like the present,” said McCarter, standing. The rest of the men of Phoenix Force followed.
Brown walked out of the office and down the hall with them. “The jeeps will take you as far as they can,” he said. “But then you’re on your own.”
“That’s usually the case,” McCarter told Brown. “Thanks for your help.”
The two men shook hands once again, then the men of Phoenix Force and Adel Spengha piled into the jeeps.
As they started toward the Iranian border, McCarter saw the Concorde take off again over his shoulder.
CHAPTER THREE
The Zagros Mountains, which separated the northern border of Iraq and Iran, was the largest mountain range of either country. And David McCarter could attest to that as he climbed the final step to the small plateau, then held up his hand for the men behind him to stop. “Fifteen-minute break,” the Phoenix Force leader said as he turned around. “Then we move on again.”
McCarter took a seat on the plateau, pulled the canteen from his belt and took a swig of water. Swishing it around in his mouth, he swallowed, then took another sip. Farther up the mountain footpath, he could see snow. But even though he and the rest of the men had been ascending steadily for over three hours, they were still low enough that their cold-weather gear was still stowed in their backpacks.
McCarter looked at the snow again, then drank once more. There was no need to save water. There would be plenty of snow and ice that could be melted before this journey was over.
McCarter drank again from his canteen as he watched the rest of Phoenix Force and their guide take seats or lie down to rest upon the plateau. After a short break the Phoenix Force leader glanced at his wrist. It was time to go.
“Everybody up,” he announced as he rose. “Time to move on.” He smiled slightly as he watched his men almost jump to their feet. There were no moans or any other sounds of distress or unhappiness you always heard when commanding regular troops. The men of Phoenix Force were far above such behavior. They were