War Tactic. Don Pendleton

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      “Do you have an appointment?” asked the receptionist.

      “No,” Lyons answered. “It’s a matter of national security. Have Mr. Rhemsen greet us in the lobby. We need to speak to him privately.”

      “I’ll see if he’s in,” she said, reaching for the telephone on her desk. The big former cop reached out and laid a heavy paw on the handset in its cradle.

      “He’s in,” Lyons said. “No runarounds. No excuses. No meetings that can’t be interrupted. Get him down here. Now.”

      Something in Lyons’s expression caused the receptionist’s already pale face to turn gray. She looked at the handset, waited for Lyons to release it and picked up the phone. She pushed only a single button, waited a moment and then said, “Sir. You had better come down. Right away.”

      Moments later the single elevator in the lobby chimed. When the doors slid open, the man who slithered out was wearing a suit that was probably worth as much as Able Team’s SUV. Blancanales was momentarily taken aback. Rhemsen’s face was a ghastly mask of too-smooth flesh stretched across his skull in a way that made him look like a snake. His eyes, under hooded lids, were very blue—too blue to be natural. He was obviously wearing colored contacts.

      “Gentlemen,” Rhemsen said, showing a thousand-watt smile full of capped and brilliantly white teeth. “I understand there’s a rather urgent matter that demands my attention.”

      “You might say that,” Lyons said. “Justice Department. We need to talk to you about some weapons systems RhemCorp manufactures.”

      “I can’t imagine you would have anything else to talk to me about,” said Rhemsen. “Come with me, gentlemen. We’ll go straight to my office.” He gestured for them to follow him to the elevator.

      Able Team stepped in with Rhemsen in the lead. There were several security guards milling around in the lobby, and as Rhemsen put his hand in front of the electric eye of the elevator, two of the goons started to walk over.

      “Nope,” Lyons said. “Your Blackstar Bunnies can wait in the lobby.”

      The shadow of something unpleasant passed across Rhemsen’s plastic face, but he managed to hide it right away. “Of course, gentlemen,” he said smoothly. At a hand motion from him, the guards suddenly discovered very interesting and invisible things to occupy them on either side of the elevator doors.

      Rhemsen took his hand away and looked at Schwarz, who was standing closest to the control panel.

      “Uh…floor?” Schwarz asked, looking glib.

      “The one labeled ‘P’ for ‘Penthouse,’” said Rhemsen.

      Schwarz pushed the button. The elevator began to move, silently and swiftly. Quiet saxophone music began to filter in through the elevator speakers.

      “I’ve never heard an elevator version of ‘Soul Finger’ before,” Schwarz commented.

      “You still haven’t. I think that’s ‘Girl from Ipanema,’” Blancanales said.

      Lyons glared daggers at them both. The elevator reached its destination.

      “I assume this has something to do with my Thorn missile systems,” said Rhemsen. “I assure you, gentlemen, I am the victim of a smuggling ring. I’m very aware of export controls and other regulations that the government puts on restricted hardware.”

      The doors opened. Blancanales was amazed to see that Rhemsen’s office was oval in shape. It was, in fact, a reasonably accurate replica of the office of the President of the United States. Framed on the wall were, not the paintings of the President and the Vice President, or even the President and the First Lady, but Harold Rhemsen dressed as some kind of Napoleonic general. On the desk, which was itself a replica of the President’s, was a gold placard. It read, The Buck Stops At My Bank Account. To say it was all a little megalomaniacal would be an understatement.

      Rhemsen seated himself at his desk and opened a desktop humidor. “Cuban cigar, gentlemen?” He grinned that electric smile again. “Apologies. A bad joke. Cuban cigars are, of course, illegal to import. These are, somewhat regrettably, Honduran, but I assure you they are of fine quality.”

      The members of Able Team looked at each other.

      “Will you have a seat, gentlemen?” Rhemsen gestured to the quartet of leather-upholstered chairs arrayed in front of his desk. Apparently he was accustomed to entertaining visitors.

      The Stony Man operatives sat. Lyons produced a sheaf of papers from inside his bomber jacket. “These are the particulars,” he said. “They detail the items recovered and what we’ve been able to determine about the provenance of the missile systems. They’re not counterfeit, before you suggest it,” Lyons said. “We’ve run into that excuse before. These are verifiably your gear, Rhemsen.”

      “You don’t look like government agents,” Rhemsen said, still smiling. Something in his body language shifted. Blancanales didn’t like it. He saw Lyons tense and, next to him, Schwarz sat straighter.

      “What makes you say that?” Lyons said. His hand began to inch toward his chest.

      “Government agents wear suits,” Rhemsen said. “They also understand how to be polite. How to follow the rules. Obey the forms. You gentlemen…well. You’re not gentlemen at all, are you? You’re…thugs.”

      “Now just a minute, pal,” Lyons said. He started to rise in his chair. Blancanales knew the action was intended to cover the draw from his shoulder holster.

      “I wouldn’t,” Rhemsen warned. He pointed to the mirror on the wall behind them. When he spoke next, his voice was raised. “Lower it,” he said.

      The pane of glass slid down on electric motors. Four of Rhemsen’s Blackstar guards were standing there, their tricked-out submachine guns pointed at Able Team. The green dots of laser targeting systems danced across Able Team’s foreheads.

      “I’m going to have to owe you that twenty,” Schwarz said quietly to Lyons.

      “Son of a bitch,” Carl Lyons said.

       CHAPTER THREE

       At The Edge of Puerto Galera, South China Sea

      The retrofitted Sikorsky S-61R, mounting 7.62 mm belt-fed M-240 machine guns and a Mark 19 automatic belt-fed 40mm grenade launcher, had extra fuel pods, giving it longer range. At the stick, Stony Man ace pilot Jack Grimaldi held the combat-ready troop helicopter low over the waves. Through the open door of the fuselage, the members of Phoenix Force watched their target.

      David McCarter held a high-tech monocular to one eye and adjusted the magnification. “Bloody hell. I hate waiting,” he muttered.

      That drew some muffled snickers from the other members of the team. McCarter shot Calvin James a squint-eyed glare before returning to the monocular.

      “Why do I get the stink eye?” James asked.

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