Stony Man - Triple Strike Part 14

That would be Lyons's last choice, but Blanca.n.a.les had a point. Regardless of their will to win, there was only so much the three of them could do by themselves.

"If we're going to be staying here for a while," Schwarz said cheerfully, "I'm going back to the res-taurant and get a little more of that bread and wine. Maybe they'll have a nice cheese to go with it."

"If you're hungry," Lyons said dispa.s.sionately, "we've got MREs in the trunk."

"Give me a break, Ironman. We're in Italy. We can use the MREs to poison the dogs."

"Just get back on your earphones and we'll eat later."

THE SUN WAS GOING DOWN over the Villa del Norte and there had still been no activity that Able Team had been able to see. The same black BMW sedan was parked in the front of the main entrance, and the curtains were still drawn on all the windows.

"It's about time to s.h.i.+ft to the night-vision goggles," Blanca.n.a.les said.

"I wouldn't bother," Schwarz replied. "When those lights go on, you won't be able to see a d.a.m.ned thing. We'll be better off using our day gla.s.ses."

"You want me to go back and get our sleeping gear?" Blanca.n.a.les asked Lyons. Now that the sun was going down, the wind was picking up, and as high as they were in the mountains, the air was tak-ing on a chill. "And bring down some MREs, too," Lyons said. "Heads up," Schwarz called out. "I've got a car turning off for the villa."

The villa was well off the highway and had about a quarter-mile private road leading up to it. From their observation point, they could watch the road all the way from the turnoff up to the villa.

"I make it out to be another BMW sedan," Blanca.n.a.les said. "A white one this time."

That was another mistake terrorists tended to make, to pick out a favorite kind of car and stick to it to the point that it became a signature. The car bombs they were making had all been planted in Fi-ats, but it seemed that the terrorists liked to drive BMWs. They would have blended in better with the local population had they driven the humble little Fiats, but they were putting style before common sense. They thought that they were important, and in Italy, big men simply didn't ride in Fiats.

Lyons had his field gla.s.ses focused on the front door when the white BMW came to a halt while Blanca.n.a.les watched the car itself. Though the sun was quickly setting, it was still light enough to see that the man who opened the door wasn't Italian. Neither were the three men who got out of the vehicle. The'n: physical appearance and choice of clothing marked them as being from the Middle East. The difference was subtle, but it was there if you knew what to look for.

"I think we just found our man," Lyons said. "Definitely Middle Eastern, late twenties, early thirties, five-ten, dark over dark. It's got to be him."

"And he just turned the lights on around his house," Schwarz commented.

As Schwarz had predicted, the lights illuminated the entire area, making it too bright for them to watch the villa with their night-vision goggles.

FOR THE FIRST TIME in his career as an Islamic freedom fighter, Ali Nadal was concerned. He wouldn't allow himself to even think of the word frightened, but his actions were clearly those of a frightened man. After the attack on the air base had been broken up, he had fied to the safety of his villa. He was convinced that there was a spy in his organization and the only men who knew about it were men he knew he could trust.

It was true that he had struck a blow for the revolution at Aviano, but he had just received a report that the air base was back in operation already. And if the planes were taking off for their patrols over Bosnia again, that meant that he had failed. In the Libyan desert, he had been taught that failure wasn't an option. At least not a failure you lived to tell about. For the revolution to triumph, Islam's holy warriors were expected to win or to die fighting, surrounded by the broken bodies of their enemies.

He now realized that trying to attack the base on the ground had been a mistake. But with the car bombs being discovered, he'd had no choice. Taking the car bombs away from him had been the critical turning point in a plan that had been worked on for months. And with the timetable he had been given, he'd had no choice but to try to destroy the base any way he could. That he had at least tried, though, wouldn't be taken well. He had failed and he was still alive.

The only way he could see to regain his status in the organization, and maybe save his own life, was to find the man who had betrayed him and make him pay the price for his betrayal.

Looking back, he now realized that he should have acted sooner. The raid on the garage should have set him off. But he hadn't taken it seriously because he hadn't had any warnings from his web of informants in the Italian police and local governments. Usually he had more than enough warning of what were called ant.i.terrorist raids. A police official would call him and tell him if one of his warehouses was to be raided or even inspected. He also got tips from his Mafia connections because they depended on him to be part of the smuggling pipeline.

The only conclusion he could come to was that there had to be a traitor within his organization, and that traitor was somehow connected to that small group of Americans who were operating out of the Aviano air base. Even though he was targeted against any and all enemies of Islam, the Yankees were the Great Satan that had to be destroyed at all costs. That was why he had sent the team in to try to capture one of them. Had the Yankee been captured, he would have told Nadal everything he knew before he died.

It could be that in his haste to learn more about this mysterious group of infidels, he had made a mistake. He had been told that all of the team he had sent in had been killed by that one man, but he doubted that now. And he should have doubted it much earlier. Had he clone so, he could have taken better precautions. But that was all in the past now. He wouldn't make the same mistake twice.

Nadal broke from his self-recriminations when his bodyguard, Ahmed, told him that the car was entering the driveway to the villa. It was bringing his three most trusted lieutenants for a council of war. He might have failed to take out Aviano air base, but he hadn't been defeated. When he received his new or-ders, he wanted to be ready to move on them.

Nadal went to the front door to greet his visitors, the two Palestinians and the Syrian who commanded his subunits. A fourth man, another Lebanese, had died in the attack on Aviano, and Nadal had taken over his cell himself until a replacement could be sent out from Libya.

After Ahmed brought a tray of sweet tea and al-mond cakes, Nadal got right to business. As were all of their discussions, the meeting was conducted in Italian or English. To keep a mistake from happening in public, Arabic couldn't be spoken as long as they were in Italy.

"I know that there is a spy in our ranks," Nadal stated flatly. "I just don't know who he is. I want you to find him and kill him immediately. And at the same time, I want you to take a careful look at all of our Italian informants. If you find any reason, however slight, to suspect anyone's loyalty, I want them eliminated, as well. When I make my report to Tripoli, I want to be able to tell them that we have eliminated the weakness in the organization."

"Some of our informants are highly placed," one of the Palestinians protested. "It might bring attention to us if they disappear."

"People disappear all the time," Nadal countered. "If it is done right, there will be no connection to US.' '

"What are we going to do about Aviano?" the other Palestinian asked.

"We will do as we have always done, n.a.z.ir- obey our orders," Nadal said. "If we are ordered to make another attack, we will make it."

"Even though they are on guard against us now? It would be suicide to try it again."

"No matter what they do, we will obey our or-ders."

"But," n.a.z.ir began, attempting to continue the conversation, "we will be-"

Without changing the expression on his face, Na-dal reached for the 9 nun Beretta holstered at the small of his back. Drawing and aiming the pistol with one swift movement, he fired a single shot into Na-zir's chest.

Ignoring the blood leaking onto his Algerian beige leather couch, Nadal holstered the pistol. "Are there any more questions?"

The other two men didn't meet his eyes, and there were no further questions.

Ahmed had come running at the sound of the shot, his Beretta subgun ready. "Take him out and feed him to the dogs," Nadal ordered, nodding at the corpse. "And you help him," he ordered the remaining Palestinian.

Being eaten by dogs was the worst fate that could befall a man. But the Palestinian dared not protest. He knew how fast Nadal was with that pistol.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

Bosnia

The trip to the Iranian camp had taken the Stony Man team considerably longer than Bolan had thought it would, but it couldn't be helped. For one thing, they had driven the entire route with their night-vision goggles rather than risk someone seeing their headlights, and that had slowed them. For another, even with the Keyhole satellite and the GPS to guide them, the roads had turned out to be little more than dirt tracks through the mountains and had been difficult to follow.

With all the delays, it was daylight before they closed in on the target, but the Farm pa.s.sed the word on that the trucks hadn't left yet, so there was still time. Stopping a little more than a mile short of the objective, David McCarter took a final GPS reading of their location and checked it against the reading from the satellite.

"They're about eight hundred meters on the other side of that point up ahead," he told Bolan.

"We'll take it the rest of the way on foot." Getting back into their rucksacks, the commandos moved out in a tactical formation. This close to their camp, the Iranians were sure to have put out some kind of security. Strangely enough, though, they didn't encounter any sentries or guard posts along the rocky mute. That kind of overconfidence was welcome, because it usually had fatal consequences.

Once they reached the mountain peak, the Iranian camp lay directly in front of them, secreted under the trees. From the air, there would be little or no sign of it. But from a vantage point to the side and a little above, such as the one the Stony Man team now occupied, it could be seen.

"It looks like they've got at least a battalion down there, Striker," McCarter said as he handed his field gla.s.ses to Bolan. "Heavy weapons and all."

Bolan focused the gla.s.ses, and the scene jumped out at him. Whoever was in charge of those troops was good. The camp had a proper perimeter with machine-gun bunkers, guard posts and what looked like mortar pits all hidden under the trees. He couldn't see any barracks or mess halls and figured that they had been built inside the cave so their heat signatures wouldn't register on the sensors of recon planes or satellites.

It was a thoroughly professional job, and at least a full battalion of infantry with armor and artillery support would be required to knock it out. Either that or a ma.s.sive air raid. But even if he could get strike aircraft in, the Iranians could retreat to their cave and be safe. Unless, of course, the aircraft could deliver something big enough to drop the roof of the cave on their heads.

"We need to talk to Katz about this," Bolan said. "We need his help on this one."

"What's he going to do for us?"

"Find us a couple of one-ton smart bombs to bring that cave down on top of them."

The Briton grinned. "That's a good idea. I rather didn't fancy climbing down there myself."

while Bolan placed the call, the rest of the team got comfortable in the rocks and watched the activities below.

Aviano Air Base, Italy Now THAT Able Team had gone after the Lebanese, Jack Grimaldi and Major Hammer were working in the Stony Man CP taking turns with the communications gear. When Bolan's call came in, Katzenelenbogen already had the satellite photos of the Iranian camp on his desk and was able to confirm Bolan's a.s.sessment of the situation. The question was how to best deal with it. Since Brognola had "borrowed" Hammer from the Air Force to be their air adviser until the situation was over, this was the time for him to start earning his pay.

Calling him over, Katz pointed to the photos.

"What's the best way to take out a place like that? A pinpoint attack or ma.s.s bombing?"

Hammer looked at the satellite recon photos and the topographical map of the Iranian camp. "That cave makes it a little tricky," he said honestly, "but a couple of two-thousand-pound smart bombs in the mouth of the cave should do it nicely. If they don't bring the roof down, the overpressure should take care of anyone inside." "Overpressure?"

When he saw the look on Katz's face, Hammer added, "I think you ground pounders call it 'blast effect.' In a confined place like a cave, you can get a much more powerful effect with a smaller explosion than you can out in the open. The cave will contain the blast so it isn't wasted, but the trick is to get the bombs in there."

"And what's the best way to do that?" Katz asked.

"That's easy," the pilot said, grinning. "A stealth fighter. It can come in from the west with a couple of GBU-27s and drive them fight through the front door. If Striker can illuminate the target the same way he did for the STABO canister delivery, it'll be a piece of cake."

Katz looked at Hammer. His original intention in having the pilot temporarily a.s.signed to the team was to keep him from letting anything slip about the Bosnian exercise. But since the pilot was on board, Katz might as well try to get more out of him than merely aeronautical advice. As always on Stony Man operations, the fewer people who knew what was actually going on, the better. Katz didn't want to get another aircrew involved unless he absolutely had to.

"Can you fly a stealth fighter?"

"Before I flew Night Owls, I was an Eagle driver, but I've been checked out on the F-117."

"Can you hit anything with their ordnance package?"

"I can put a GBU-27 smart bomb within three feet of the laser spot," he said with some pride. "We carded them on our Strike Eagles, too, and I got all good hits when I went Scud hunting in the Gulf."

"Good," Katz said as he reached for the phone. "Get ready to go flying while I see about rounding up a stealth fighter for you."

"That may be a little difficult," Hammer said. "The stealth jocks are a little particular about who they even let get close to their toys."

"I'll just ask the Man to have the blue-suiters loan us one."

These guys were always talking about "the Man" as if the words were all in caps and Hammer couldn't help but think that it was the President of the United States they were so casually referring to. "Who do you guys work for, anyway?" He couldn't stop himself from asking.

Katz smiled wolfishly. "I could tell you, Major, but then I'd have to kill you and I need you to fly for me."

"Never mind."

HAL BROGNOLA also had copies of the satellite pho-tos of the Iranian camp that Katz had examined and he had also been thinking of an air strike. For something that big, there was no other way to take it out. Phoenix was good, but they weren't good enough to take on an entrenched battalion and suicide was not an option.

When Katz's request for the loan of a stealth fighter and two smart bombs came in, he got right on it. Since the nerve gas was on the top of the President's agenda, he immediately got to see him and made the necessary calls to the Chief of Staff of the Air Force from the Oval Office. There were some perks with his job.

TWO HOURS LATER, ratz called Hammer back in. "Get down to the flight line," he said, "and get suited up. I've got a stealth fighter standing by for you."

"Just like that?"

Katz grinned. "All you have to do is call the right people, and things happen."

Hammer shook his head in amazement. "I'm go-ing to that cave site, right?"

"I'll give you the coordinates once you're in the air."

"Can I at least know where I'm going?"

"East, to Bosnia."

"d.a.m.n, I was hoping for the Riviera."

"They don't have any nerve-gas rockets there."

"I'm on the way."

As unlikely as it sounded, Hammer found that Katz was as good as his word. When he walked out of the ready room in his flight gear, he saw the wicked shape of a night-black F-117A stealth fighter waiting in the hangar for him, its twin GE F404 turbines humming at an idle.

"She's loaded up as directed, sir," the crew chief said, saluting as he reported. "You have two GBU-27s with laser-guidance heads."

The two-thousand-pound GBU-27, better known to the public as the smart bomb, had been the real star of Desert Storm. During the air-war phase of the Gulf War, the worldwide TV audience had sat in front of their screens mesmerized as they watched the bombs being guided into their targets with almost magical accuracy. The American TV audience had cheered when they watched smart bombs take out single tracks on the road or blast down the air shafts of command bunkers like a scene out of the Star Wars movies.

This had almost been video-arcade warfare, and the public had eaten it up. But they hadn't enjoyed it half as much as the pilots had. Until the advent of laser-guided weapons, delivering the bomb on the target had always been an art form, not a repeatable science. With the smart bombs, though, it had become a snap. They almost guaranteed first-round hits under any conditions.

"Thank you, Sergeant," Hammer replied, returning the salute before climbing into the plane's c.o.c.kpit. 'Tll take real good care of her for you."

"You'd better, sir," the crew chief warned. "I have my a.s.s on the line because I have to personally report back to the Air Force chief of staff when you bring her back."

'Tll be careful."

Bosnia "KATZ HAS ROUNDED UP a stealth fighter with a cou-ple of smart bombs on board," David McCarter reported, "and it's on the way now. Hammer's driving, and he wants to know if we can illuminate the target for him."

"No problem," Bolan said. "Put Gary and T.J. on it again. They did a good job with the STABO canister."

Taking the target illuminator out of their rocks, the two commandos found a good place in the rocks and set up their equipment. If Hammer wanted it lit up, they could accommodate him.

LIKE ms TR-3 Night Owl, the F-117A stealth fighter Major John Hammer was flying was subsonic. But for this kind of mission, speed was not of the essence. The opposition didn't have emplaced antiaircraft weapons, and there was no gauntlet of MiG fighters or SAtMs that he would have to penetrate. And with the heat-diffusing exhausts of the fighter cooling his exhaust plume, the Strellas wouldn't be able to get a lock on him, either. This would be a milk ran.

It should be a milk run, the pilot automatically corrected himself. As every combat pilot was all too aware, there was always the golden-BB factor to consider. A golden BB was any shot, even a rifle bullet, that was blindly aimed up into the sky, but that just happened to hit something essential as you flew by. It happened all the time in aerial warfare. Even the Red Baron had fallen to a golden BB. In his case, however, the something vital it had hit had been him.