Grave Mercy. Don Pendleton
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icy grating in his voice, like a whetstone over a combat knife.
Mack Bolan was on the hunt.
CALVIN JAMES pulled off the oxygen mask and flight helmet before he crawled out of the rear seat of the F-14 Tomcat. The Mach 2 fighter had torn through the skies like a guided missile, delivering the former SEAL to the aircraft carrier in time to meet up with the Executioner. The pilot of the plane had pointed out Bolan’s chopper, looking as if it were hovering still in the air compared to the breakneck pace of the long-range jet.
James was glad to be out of the cockpit. He was two inches too tall for the Tomcat at six foot two, and his legs and head had been squashed in on the supersonic flight. The aircraft had traveled for an hour at full speed, but an hour in the claustrophobic backseat was just too much for him. The only consolation was that James had ridden in planes too small for him before and had learned how to bend and twist so he wouldn’t end the flight with muscle cramps.
That’s what he’d told himself as he rubbed his neck, wincing as sleepy shoulder muscles protested at the excessive stretching.
A crewman withdrew James’s duffel from its small storage locker just behind the seat. There wasn’t much inside it other than for a case containing his personal Beretta 92-F, two of his favorite knives and a Glock 26 backup pistol, with holsters and accessories for everything. Price had informed James that clothing would be provided at the other end of the flight, so his combat gear would be all he needed.
The captain, Timothy Bannon, was waiting across the deck, observing as his crew tended to the newly arrived Tomcat. With a simple turn, Bannon would be only moments from the bridge in case of an emergency. This carrier was his responsibility, and he hovered over it as if he were guarding his own toddler. Bannon was six feet even, with broad shoulders, and his baseball-style cap couldn’t conceal the clean-shaved sides and back of his head. Blue eyes, looking out from blond, nearly invisible eyebrows, scanned the tall black man who approached him.
“Calvin Farrow,” James introduced himself, using one of his cover names. “Permission to come aboard.”
Bannon extended his hand. “Permission granted. The Justice Department needs my ship?”
“Just a small part, sir,” James returned. “We have a man coming in by helicopter, and I need to take a look at the blood samples he collected.”
“So you’ll use our sick bay, rather than take up room on a hospital ship,” Bannon surmised. “We’re not doing anything on board, but we do have a good phlebotomy laboratory. Sadly, it’s something that’s needed in the modern Navy.”
“Mandatory drug testing, among other things,” James said. “I know the kind of stuff that people get into on duty on a carrier. Amphetamines to stay on extra duty when coffee stops working…especially for pilots.”
James could tell that he’d struck a sore point with Bannon, but the former Navy SEAL had also struck a chord that resonated with the Captain. Both were Navy, and James’s understanding of the unfortunate zeal of their fellow personnel was a salve to that soreness. “Here comes the chopper.”
“The communiqué said that Stone is, well, was U.S. Army,” Bannon noted. “Is he a good man?”
“There’s not a lick of interservice rivalry in his entire body,” James replied. “You won’t find a more staunch supporter of the military in the world.”
“A real supporter? Or a war hawk?” Bannon asked.
James looked at Bannon. “Real. He didn’t earn his colonel rank because of an accident of birth or a lot of money.”
Bannon’s broad shoulders relaxed. “Good. You see these ex-military contractors, and you start to wonder where their real sympathies lie.”
“He’s his own boss. This way, he gets to work without a lot of red tape sticking to him,” James said.
The helicopter settled down, and Bolan stepped off. His black BDU top didn’t match the digital camouflage BDU pants he wore, but the effect was a sharp blend, and the darker fabric was better at concealing the handles and bulges of his sidearms. If James hadn’t known that the Executioner rarely went unarmed, he wouldn’t have known that the man had at least two handguns and an assortment of other tools tucked away in pockets on his person. Bolan gave Bannon a sharp salute, then shook James’s hand.
“I’ve got your presents,” the soldier said.
James took the small cooler, giving its plastic side a soft slap. “Permission to head to your lab, sir.”
Bannon nodded. “Granted, Farrow. Ensign, escort him, and get him there double time.”
The ensign that Bannon addressed snapped to, and James turned, leaving Bolan and the carrier’s captain to talk.
BANNON HADN’T exaggerated about the extensive technology in the lab. James not only had an assortment of regular and electronic microscopes, but there were centrifuges and spectrometers for looking at the chemicals within the bloodstream. The final item that James had brought on the flight, aside from his personal weapons, was his personal laptop, which had the spec-profiles of hundreds of drug and toxin combinations.
The Phoenix Force medic was also familiar with the kind of alchemy practiced by the “zombie lords” of the Caribbean, and thus would be able to direct the search for the kinds of atomic chains left behind in the blood samples. Fortunately, the blood hadn’t been kept so cold that ice crystals had formed in its water content, making separating it into test tubes easier.
James knew that he was in for the long haul, and looked forward to the intellectual challenge ahead. He blanked the origins of the blood sample from his mind, burying his emotions over the violence the berserkers committed so that he could focus on the biochemical mysteries in front of him.
Once he narrowed down the origins of the maniacal tourist murderers, then James would switch into Phoenix Force commando mode and assist the Executioner in bringing hot lead and righteous retribution down on the murderous manipulators.
For now, the lab machines would hum and do their job.
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