Orbital Velocity. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ at China and the U.S.”

      “The only two countries with the resources to launch orbital bombardment satellites,” Price noted. “Though we’re concerned with something in the U.S. Lyons informed us that the Reich Highwaymen were skulking around LAX.”

      “Reich Highwaymen in the U.S., Jakkhammer Legacy in England,” Schwarz mused. “Anything on our Nazi watch?”

      “There’ve been funds flying around the backtrails, but nothing that points in any solid direction,” Carmen Delahunt spoke up. “All we know is—” she looked at her screen, her green eyes flashing as she did some quick math “—the amount of money in the stream is increased.”

      “And no old artifacts or gold has turned up,” Schwarz stated.

      “That’s true, but violence has increased in Europe among diamond smugglers,” Delahunt replied, anticipating Schwarz’s next supposition.

      The Able Team genius frowned. Being right while he grasped at rumors and hints to form a plan of action was no victory. While he’d put together circumstantial evidence for where Stony Man should direct its attention for the origins of their unknown enemy, the conspiracy seemed to have links to violent, neofascist, racial supremacist groups from Moscow to Los Angeles. Putting boots on the ground in Africa would do nothing to stem the tide of mayhem that humans could cause, as opposed to the destruction wrought by throwing giant crowbars at cities from orbit.

      Able Team had encountered the adherents of racial intolerance in the U.S. and engaged them in brutal combat. They were bloodthirsty and ruthless in their ideology, and recently the white supremacist scum had gone from supplementing their income with drug dealing and weapons smuggling to becoming full-time players, exercising their greed at easy money, power and prestige.

      The Reich Highwaymen were symptomatic of this trend, being among the most successful smugglers across the border between California and Mexico. There were also five warrants for RHM members wanted for questioning in regard to twenty murders.

      That’s just what the police knew. Unreported killings, in Schwarz’s experience, would be exponentially more.

      “See if the Highwaymen have any friends here on the east coast,” Schwarz suggested. “It’s not as if the FBI and the CIA aren’t following more obvious, less arcane leads, right?”

      “It could just be that you’ve got a bias against those gangs,” Price noted. “We could be spinning our wheels for an old grudge against a particular type of biker.”

      “What was that about Jakkhammer Legacy?” Schwarz asked. “British neo-Nazis who are the strong-arm behind the British Imperial Revival Society? Looking for the day when all the brown peoples in the world know their place, and it’s usually toiling for a white limey?”

      “You’re fast on the research,” Kurtzman noted.

      “I heard Barb talking about it with David,” Schwarz said.

      “A worldwide fascist conspiracy, and they’re working out of darkest Africa,” Price said.

      “Using black slaves to mine diamonds and build launch pads,” Schwarz added. “Can you think of something a white supremacist wouldn’t like more than having Africans work themselves to death for their purposes?”

      Price shook her head reluctantly. “Racist bastards… For once I completely agree with Carl about dealing with them.”

      “Shoot first, ask questions, then finish shooting,” Schwarz explained for the computer experts in the War Room.

      A phone warbled. Price picked it up. “Gadgets, it’s Pol.”

      “Pol” was short for “Politician,” the nickname for the diplomatic and smooth-talking Rosario Blancanales, the third and final member of Able Team. When Lyons had activated and stayed on station in Los Angeles, the ex-LAPD cop had suggested that someone go on alert in Washington, D.C., preferably working from street level to avoid duplicating the efforts of federal agencies who were looking at terrorist groups and foreign governments. Lyons had been a beat cop, and while he had the advantage of electronic, satellite and internet-scoured information, he had never given up on the reliability of rumors and chatter on the mean streets. Blancanales, an affable, nearly chameleonlike person who could disarm an enemy with his words and his hands, had volunteered, leaving Schwarz free to utilize his particular skills.

      Somewhere Blancanales had come through, prying loose some nugget of information that would give Stony Man Farm an edge.

      Schwarz punched the speaker phone button, so that Blancanales could be heard by the rest of the War Room staff. “What’s the news, Pol?”

      “I stumbled my way to a town just a mile past Chevy Chase,” Blancanales answered. “Don’t tell Carl, but his primitive, stone-age cop ways still work.”

      Schwarz grinned. “A town?”

      “Barely a town, actually. Basically, it’s the runoff from an interstate. It’s got some fast-food restaurants, two major gas station franchises and a bunch of small rest stops catering to the nomadic sort,” Blancanales explained.

      “Bikers and truckers,” Schwarz translated for Price. She rolled her eyes, exasperated by the assumption that she hadn’t learned the verbal shorthand utilized by the field teams.

      “I work at a desk for a few hours a day. I’m not a hermit stuck on an island,” Price responded.

      “Anyway, there’s a congregation meeting. It looks as if they’re getting set for a holy revival,” Blancanales said. “Be nice if you got here.”

      “Is Jack or Charlie around?” Schwarz asked, referring to Jack Grimaldi or Charlie Mott, Stony Man’s two resident pilots.

      “I’ve had Charlie keep a helicopter on standby,” Price said. “Get to the pad, and he’ll take you up as soon as you get there.”

      “I’ll be there in a few minutes, Pol,” Schwarz said. “Tell Barb your exact location so Charlie can take me there as the crow flies. Need party favors?”

      “I’m pretty well strapped. Just bring plenty of ammo,” Blancanales replied.

      Herman Schwarz raced out of the War Room.

      It was time to ask some questions, Able Team style.

      The Congo

      JOHN CARMICHAEL TRIPPED but recovered his balance by hugging a tree trunk. The trouble with doing that in a rainforest was that creatures started crawling along his arm, making a beeline for his shoulder and neck. It took five hard, quick slaps to make certain everything had been either knocked off or crushed, and the smashed insects that clung to his dark arm left behind a gooey mess that attracted hungry flies. He mopped the stuff off his arm, not wanting to catch a bite from a tsetse fly or some infection from a disease-ridden set of insect mandibles.

      “Congratulations, you made it another hundred yards before something else tried to kill you,” he panted. He glanced back, trying to take consolation in the fact that the only things that had been after him, at least those that he could see, weren’t men packing assault rifles.

      “Only problem with that,” he told himself, “is you can’t shoot bugs.”

      Carmichael СКАЧАТЬ