to Russian generals at the old Kremlin would hardly be missed.
CHAPTER TWO
Southern Caribbean
The NA-265—60 Saberliner Jet cut through the air at well over 500 mph. Below the forty-four-foot wingspan wisps of clouds obscured the view of the Caribbean Ocean. To the west the sun was setting in an explosion of reddish-yellow light.
The civilian jet was flown by a skeleton crew of three pilots from the Central Intelligence Agency’s clandestine service, while in the passenger area the three operators of Able Team lounged after being picked up after a mission in the Uruguay capital of Montevideo.
Big, blond and built like a nightclub bouncer, Carl Lyons reclined in one of the plush seats and stared out the window. Wearing civilian clothes and tan, thick-soled hiking boots, he looked rumpled, dirty and tired. One knee of his jeans was stained with blood splatter and his hands smelled like cordite. He set down his can of soda and crossed one size-twelve boot over his knee.
He noticed absentmindedly that the toe and tread of his boot were flecked with brain matter. He turned to look at the mustached, sandy-haired man sprawled in the seat across the narrow aisle from him.
“You think you used enough Semtex in that last satchel charge?” Lyons asked, voice dry.
Hermann Schwarz shrugged as he opened a can of soda. He took a long drink, then shrugged again.
“Don’t know,” he admitted. “I mean, the door came open. Right?”
“Every ass clown in that FARC hit squad came out the opening looking like fruit in a blender,” Rosario Blancanales pointed out.
“Did I tell ’em to carry a suitcase full of grenades?” Schwarz countered.
“Barb’s going to be pissed we didn’t recover any intelligence artifacts,” Lyons pointed out. The leader of Able Team referred to Barbara Price, the mission controller at their organizational headquarters, Stony Man Farm.
“I’m really more of an engineer and less of an archaeologist,” Schwarz answered.
“Who said anything about archaeologists?” Lyons demanded.
“It was a play on the dual use of the term ‘artifact’ you mentioned,” Blancanales explained.
“Thank you,” Schwarz said.
“It was also stupid and obvious,” Blancanales continued.
“Thank you,” Lyons said.
The digital speakers of the Saberliner’s PA system cut on and the pilot’s voice, sounding well modulated and distant, cut in. “I got an alert from HQ,” the woman said. “You have a fragmentation order. Please access the communications display in your table.”
“Speaking of Mama Bear…” Blancanales grinned.
Reaching out a single blunt finger, Lyons jabbed it into the console button. A section of the desktop slid back to reveal a recessed screen and keyboard. A red light next to a digital camera blinked on and the blank image on the screen snapped into resolution, revealing the attractive features of the honey-blond Stony Man mission controller, Barbara Price.
“Good work in Uruguay,” Price said. “I’ve got something new for you.”
From behind the television Blancanales snorted in laughter. “I wish she’d knock it off already with all the chitchat and get to business.”
“No shit,” Schwarz muttered.
Lyons scowled in their direction out of habit. “Go ahead, Barb,” he said.
“Hal just got a request through the Justice Department,” Price started, referencing Hal Brognola, the director of the Sensitive Operations Group which oversaw Stony Man Farm and its teams. “An investigative liaison for the FBI assigned to the Dominican Republic went missing twelve hours ago.”
“I’m not tracking,” Lyons said with a frown. “This doesn’t sound like an Able operation.” Looking down, he saw the blood splatter on his boot. “At all,” he added.
“We have three major problems,” Price began.
“Here it comes,” Schwarz said.
“One, the agent’s mission was twofold. Ostensibly he was helping with money-laundering operations used by international drug cartels. For that assignment he was given a Dominican counterpart. Partway into that investigation he came across evidence of corruption within the nation’s security services.”
“Gasp.” Blancanales shook his head.
“He was instructed to keep a low profile and to build a file to be turned over to the State Department. He went to meet a confidential informant and failed to make his last two check-ins.”
“Surely the Feds have protocols for that?” Lyons pointed out.
“They do,” Price answered. “The problem is that six hours ago police forces opened fire on an eighteen-year-old boy in a Santo Domingo ghetto. The police claimed the boy was resisting arrest, but witnesses claim he was unarmed. It turned out the boy was the son of the president’s chief political opponent.”
“Uh-oh,” Schwarz said. “The plot thickens.”
“Street gangs loyal to the opposition party immediately began rioting. The government responded with force and the unrest has now spread to all major parts of the city. The consulate is locked down. Nonessential personnel have been choppered out to Navy ships offshore. The city is locked down under martial law and the State Department has declared the Dominican a nonpermissive area.”
“Meaning no unescorted diplomats or government personnel,” Lyons finished.
“The government has refused to give sanction to any retrievals or investigations by us until the civil unrest has been contained,” Price said.
“And all the evidence wiped clean,” Blancanales added.
“Your pilot has been given her new flight instructions. You’ll touch down at the auxiliary executive airport just outside of town. To clear customs you’ll have to come out of this plane without the gear you used in Uruguay. Someone from the consulate will be waiting for you. Carmen has just sent the coordinates to a joint CIA/DEA safehouse to Schwarz’s BlackBerry. Go there, equip and go over what files we got on the missing agent’s case.”
“Sounds good,” Lyons said and nodded.
“Remember,” Price added. “We have no Dominican liaison for you. We do not have permission to operate. The city is locked with riots and under martial law. As far as we are concerned, the FBI’s contacts in Santo Domingo are compromised. This is going to be hairy.”
Schwarz looked at his teammates. “What’s new?” he asked.
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
INSIDE THE communications center of the underground Annex, Barbara Price clicked off the screen to the communications relay station and slowly turned in her chair. She saw Aaron
