Capital Offensive. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ further notice.”

      “All of them short-range weapons and pretty damn useless at stopping an incoming ICBM.”

      “Unfortunately, yes.”

      Without further comment, Price went to a phone on the wall and started punching buttons.

      “Okay, if the saboteurs—or rather, the hackers—hit the warehouse before they stole the missiles,” Blancanales said slowly, narrowing his gaze, “that means they’re afraid we might fix this before a real war starts.”

      “Which certainly seems to be their goal,” Lyons noted.

      “Agreed. This seems to say that time is critical to them.”

      “Then we just have to move faster,” Schwarz added somberly.

      Deep in thought, Blancanales pulled in a long breath and let it out slowly. “Gadgets, any idea how long it might take for Jet Propulsion Laboratory to make replacement units?”

      “I’m sure the templates are still in storage somewhere,” the man said hesitantly. “Unless they were also in the warehouse. But even if they have to work from scratch, I’d estimate three months, maybe only two.”

      “No better than that?” Price demanded unhappily, hanging up the receiver.

      Schwarz shrugged. “Hey, it used to take six months to build the things, and the very first model took years to perfect.”

      “All right, inertial guidance systems are expensive, rare and delicate,” Lyons said, looking upward to stare at the featureless ceiling. “So let’s use that to our advantage.”

      “What do you mean?” Price asked, reclaiming her chair.

      “If we had more inertial guidance units, our ICBMs would be safe and the terrorists would be out of business.”

      Slowly, her face lit up. “So we make more of them. Hundreds more. On paper.”

      “Exactly. Then when the terrorists attack the fake warehouse,” Lyons said, “we grab a few alive and twist the location of their base out of them.”

      “And how they’re doing it,” Schwarz added, gesturing with a finger. “That’s paramount.”

      “Agreed.”

      Price said nothing. She could image what would be involved in the process. Able Team wouldn’t torture a prisoner for information, no matter how badly it was needed, but there were a lot of ways a man could be forced to talk. Including letting him escape and following him back to his base of operations. However, that was used only when the situation was truly desperate. Sometimes, the “rabbit” would simply run, staying far away from his comrades. But then, nothing was certain in life except death.

      Tapping on the intercom, Price said, “Bear?”

      “Yeah?” the man replied.

      “We need you to create a virtual warehouse full of INS devices,” Price told him.

      “What for?” Kurtzman growled over the speaker. “Oh, I get it. A trap. Sure. Where do you want it located? I know of a DOD warehouse in Columbus, Ohio, where we store nonsensitive documents. Easy enough to switch the inventory to guidance systems…no, that would be much too close. The warehouse has to be as far away as possible, but still on American soil.”

      “Good point. How about Puerto Rico?” Blancanales suggested, leaning forward in his chair. “I know for a fact that the U.S. government already has several long-term storage facilities on the island.”

      “Sounds fine,” Kurtzman replied.

      “As soon as you have the fake warehouse filed, I’ll pull Phoenix Force off their inspection and have them order the technicians at the silo to prepare the other missiles for an emergency retrofit,” Price said. “Then they’ll take a standard military transport to Puerto Rico, requisition a cargo truck and drive off into the jungle, with a return flight scheduled for an hour.”

      “Why not helicopters?”

      “The winds are too strong in some of the more remote valleys,” she answered. “Besides, trucks are slower. Which gives the terrorists time to stage an ambush. So choose someplace appropriate, Aaron. Far from civilians.”

      “With plenty of combat room. I understand. No problem,” the man replied, and the intercom clicked silent.

      “How can we be sure the terrorists find out in time?” Blancanales asked, furrowing his brow.

      “How did they learn about the first warehouse?” Price countered, typing on the keyboard. “Now, I want you three in Sonora, ASAP. These people would be fools not to have somebody watching the ruined warehouse to see who we send to investigate.” She smiled coldly. “That’s why I didn’t send Phoenix Force there first. Make them sweat a little. Nervous people make mistakes.”

      “If I was any more nervous I’d need a change of underwear,” Schwarz quipped.

      “Again?” Blancanales retorted.

      Ignoring the banter, Lyons pulled a .357 Magnum Colt Python from behind his back and swung out the cylinder to check the load. He closed the gun with a firm click. “How soon can Jack be ready to fly us down to Texas?”

      “He’s warming up a C-130 Hercules at Dulles right now,” Price replied, looking up from the keyboard. “Your equipment van is already being loaded. And a blacksuit has a helicopter on the front lawn waiting for you. Find me somebody, and burn the rope.”

      Stoically, the three members of Able Team rose from the table, gathered their personal belongings and headed for the door.

      “Move fast on this,” Price ordered in dismissal. “The numbers are already falling. You have no idea how close we came to the end of everything last night.”

      But the men were already gone, the armored door swinging closed behind them.

      “Good luck,” the mission controller added softly, returning to her typing. For a long while, the only sounds in the War Room were the soft patting of her strong fingers and the steady ticking of the mechanical clock mounted on the concrete wall.

       CHAPTER THREE

       Panama Canal, Panama

      As the thick steel gates of the lock began to swing aside, the colossal Pennsylvania loomed in the opening, dominating everything with its sheer size.

      “Back off!” the harbor master screamed into a radio microphone. The man was bent over a twinkling console in the control room of Lock Command. “Veer starboard! I said starboard, not port, you fool!”

      But the American oil tanker continued irrevocably onward, the ship’s computer totally confused by the conflicting information it was receiving from the channel markers and the GPS network. On the bridge of the Pennsylvania, the frantic captain was attempting to seize manual control of the huge vessel, but before he could, it was too late.

      In a horrible groan of crushing steel, the prow of the ship crumpled СКАЧАТЬ