ended as suddenly as it had begun and left only ringing and dulled senses in its wake. Amid the searing odor of cordite, Stout detected just a whiff of blood. Lots of blood.
Before Stout could decide what to do next, rough hands cut free the seat belt and then dragged him from the SUV. Stout considered resisting but then realized it wouldn’t do him any good. Well-trained and armed FBI agents had been unable to repel these aggressors, so to even attempt such an escapade, being unarmed and unprepared, wouldn’t have been the act of either a wise or educated man.
And Philip Stout considered himself both above all else.
Stout looked into the eyes of the man he assumed to be the leader. They were dark eyes, eyes that burned with hatred and the fires of fanaticism. Stout had seen them before, eyes that belonged to men who were driven by something much deeper than mere political or religious conviction. That was a mistake so many Americans made. To think that terrorists were really interested in furthering the cause of any one group or religion bore inherent dangers. No, men like this were not driven by such trivial considerations. They considered the eradication or subjugation of those who did not subscribe to their same personal codes of belief as the paramount goal of their activities.
Before Stout could even inquire as to the man’s intent, another one of the terrorists grabbed his arm and held it out in front of him. The shiny steel manacles dangled in the streetlights for only a moment. And then, oddly, they were no longer visible and the burning sensation that followed seemed to take a very long time to reach Stout’s brain. That’s when it registered that the reason he no longer saw the cuffs dangling was that they were no longer attached to his wrist.
And that was because he no longer had a wrist.
Stout looked down and saw his hand, still twitching slightly, lying on the street directly in front of his shoes. He let out a scream even as he looked up and into the eyes of the terrorist one more time. His eyes had changed shape, crinkling at the corners, and Stout realized the man was smiling beneath that mask. Next to him, he held up a very long, sharp object—some kind of sword—coated with just a patina of sticky redness about midpoint along its length. Stout opened his mouth to scream again.
It would be his last scream.
CHAPTER TWO
The noonday sun had long cleared away the gray winter clouds by the time the three men of Able Team arrived on the scene.
Carl “Ironman” Lyons, Able Team’s leader, stood with arms folded and studied the wrecked Ford Expedition with cold blue eyes. Lyons wore tan slacks and button-down shirt with tie beneath his brown leather jacket. On his belt he wore the badge of an FBI agent, visible to any of the real FBI personnel who might scrutinize him, but the .357 Magnum Colt Python revolver remained concealed in shoulder leather beneath his left armpit. Lyons gave the scene one more look and then ran his hand through his thin blond hair.
A shorter man with light brown hair, brown eyes and a mustache walked up and stopped beside him. Lyons glanced for a moment at the profile of Hermann Schwarz. Known among his colleagues as “Gadgets” for his wizardry in electronics, particularly countersurveillance technology, Schwarz had been friends with Lyons for more years than either of them could remember.
“Well?” Lyons inquired.
Schwarz shrugged. “I did an inspection of both the SUV and the surrounding area. Whatever did the damage to that vehicle wasn’t any kind of an explosive device. There’s all sorts of paint transfer along the back, like a neon orange color.”
Lyons furrowed his brow. “Like maybe on a city truck?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
Before Lyons could ask any more questions, a third man joined their huddle. He had gray-white hair, black eyes and a husky build, but it was a mistake to assume there was any flab in that physique. Rosario “Politician” Blancanales exchanged glances with his comrades, and Lyons could tell just by the look on his face he didn’t have any better news. Given Blancanales’s unique talents for diplomacy, Lyons had let his friend handle the inquiries with the other agents investigating the scene, as well as the forensics team. A half dozen agencies were represented, and neither Lyons nor Schwarz had the patience to deal with all the red tape. That left Blancanales as the optimal choice.
“What is it?” Lyons asked Blancanales.
“I’m afraid it isn’t much is what it is,” Blancanales said.
Schwarz chuckled. “Sounds a bit like a Buddhist riddle.”
“Only not as easy to solve. I talked to everybody who’s anybody on this case. Nobody has the first clue what’s going on or why this happened.”
Lyons shrugged and splayed his hands. “Well, we already know that much. Hal and Barb gave us the likely motive in this morning’s briefing. Were you sleeping during that part?”
ABLE TEAM had been at Stony Man Farm for a training exercise when the call came from the Oval Office to activate them. It took only fifteen minutes to get from the training grounds to the War Room in the basement of the old farmhouse, where Hal Brognola opened the briefing with a chilling statement.
“It would seem that some unknown party has laid their hands on the plans for a new prototype submarine being developed for the United States Navy.” Brognola then looked at Barbara Price and prompted her with a nod.
The Stony Man mission controller fingered a strand of her honey-blond hair behind her ear before saying, “Approximately three hours ago, four federal agents and a military scientist from the Washington Naval Yard were ambushed in downtown D.C. on their way to the Pentagon. Aaron?”
The other man in the room, a big and burly type despite being confined to a wheelchair, was Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman. The Stony Man cybernetics genius tapped a key on the terminal board in front of him, and an overhead projector displayed the face of a young, wiry-haired man in a business suit.
Simultaneously the lights dimmed and Price continued her narrative. “That’s Dr. Philip Stout, a specialist in the construction of nuclear-powered naval ships. Six years ago he graduated with his doctorate from MIT, an education he’d won on a scholarship after almost twenty-five years as a submarine officer. The vessel he designed was under a direct nod from the Secretary of the Navy and the Department of Defense.”
Brognola interjected, “You should probably know that this vessel is more than just another submarine. It’s a superweapon designed to carry a very small crew complement, penetrate enemy waters and deliver a first-strike nuclear payload.”
“And according to the information we received from the President, Dr. Stout was on his way to a meeting with the Joint Chiefs of Staff at the Pentagon to present the plans for the prototype,” Price said.
“Okay, question,” Lyons said. “I thought America had entered into a strict policy of nuclear nonproliferation.”
Price nodded. “They have, but with the continuing threat from nations like Iran and North Korea, not to mention the increased terrorist activity around the world since we first invaded Iraq and Afghanistan, there are certain elements within the DOD that insist on a backup plan. And apparently the President has agreed to this.”
“But only as a backup plan,” Brognola added.
“What about this attack?” Blancanales asked. “We have any suspects?”
