or even if he’s simply letting his company sell the Seever units to foreign nationals with ties to terror, I want him taken down. That means sooner or later you’ll be paying him a visit at Butler Telecomm headquarters in Atlanta.”
“And me, a local boy, stuck overseas,” Hawkins drawled. “Let me know if you boys want a list of the local hotspots.”
“Could get sticky,” Blancanales said dubiously, leaning in so his face was visible. “Government operatives pressuring an American entrepreneur who’s already complaining about governmental harassment.”
“We don’t exist,” Brognola said. “We do, therefore, what we have to do.”
“Understood, Hal.” Lyons nodded.
“Every second that uranium is out there is a tick on the doomsday clock,” Brognola said gravely. “If it’s not recovered, we’re looking at nuclear Armageddon in the hands of terrorists. On the next threat level, we have to look seriously at the idea our domestic political infrastructure is being compromised by violent terrorists with an international agenda. In either direction, the outlook is bleak, and the threat to the United States potentially terminal.”
“Understood,” Lyons said again. McCarter and the members of Phoenix Force nodded grimly.
“All right,” Brognola said. “Phoenix, we’re in touch with the Indian government and will have some of the red tape untangled before your boots hit the ground there. More information will be made available to you through secure data transfers as and if it becomes available. Get out there, people. Get it done. Hundreds of thousands of lives could ultimately ride on this.”
“Bloody hell,” McCarter repeated.
CHAPTER THREE
Nongstoin, West Khasi Hills, India
The old Range Rover was scarred and even boasted a small-caliber bullet hole in one rear side window, but the engine had turned over smoothly and the tank had been full when they boarded. For small favors like those, David McCarter thanked whatever higher power likely wasn’t listening—fate, hope, karma, whatever—and brought the vehicle to a halt in front of the Deputy commissioner’s office. The humidity hit him as soon as he exited the truck’s air-conditioned cab. Across from the parking area, a low, round fountain—which was not running—sat full of stagnant green water. The fountain was surrounded by purple-red flowers that appeared almost to be growing wild.
The district headquarters squatted above them, a square, multistory, grayish-green building. An Indian flag fluttered on a flagpole jutting from the roof. In the distance, under gray skies and misty clouds, the hills for which the region was named loomed round and dark. McCarter paused to light a Player’s cigarette. Inhaling deeply, he surveyed the area around the squat building. The rest of Phoenix Force climbed out of the Range Rover behind him.
“Bloody wonderful,” McCarter muttered to himself, taking in the scene.
Jack Grimaldi, Stony Man Farm’s ace pilot, waited with their plane at the airstrip, where Stony Man’s logistics wizards had also arranged for a helicopter, Hughes OH-6A Loach which was in superb condition and came with a single Hydra 70 mm seven-tube rocket pod. McCarter had no idea how Brognola or Price had managed to wrangle that on Indian soil, nor was he going to look this particular gift horse in the mouth.
“Easy, David,” Encizo offered, coming up to stand next to him. “It’s a necessary evil.”
“Don’t I know it, mate,” McCarter since, taking a deep drag from his cigarette. “It doesn’t mean I like it any more. We should be moving directly on the first target.”
“Proper form, my friend,” Encizo said quietly. “Proper form must be followed.” The target to which McCarter referred was a cement factory outside Nongstoin. It had been identified by the Farm’s computer experts as belonging to an investor suspected of having ties to the Purba Banglars. It was too great a coincidence to ignore. Such a plant would be a great place to stage stolen uranium, it seemed to McCarter. He could not understand why they were wasting time appeasing bureaucrats, but Brognola had cautioned them against ignoring the district’s deputy commissioner. They would need the cooperation of the locals if they were to operate without interference from the Indian government. While relations between India and the United States were not particularly strained, the presence of armed American operatives on foreign soil was always a touchy issue. Phoenix Force had been issued false credentials identifying them, officially, as U.S. Military advisers operating as security consultants. Each man had retained his first name, as this was not exactly deep cover, but any check on their fake last names would yield a Farm-produced piece of biographical fiction that would lead nowhere.
In the truck, in specially loaded gear bags, were the team’s assault rifles. The Farm’s armorer, John “Cowboy” Kissinger, had supplied them with his latest prizes—Israeli Military Industries TAR-21 Tavor assault rifles, space-age bullpup rifles chambered in 5.56 mm NATO and accepting STANAG M-16 30-round magazines. The incredibly ergonomic, compact weapons were modular firearms comprised of composite materials, each specially tuned to Kissinger’s exacting standards. Each rifle had a cyclic rate of 800 rounds and was fitted with red-dot optics for fast target acquisition. James and Manning had been issued Tavors with the M-203 40 mm grenade launcher attachment, and their gear contained high-explosive, flechette and flare rounds for the weapons.
A padded, nondescript case in the truck also contained an M-24 Sniper Weapon System. The United States Army’s version of the Remington 700 rifle, chambered in 7.62 mm NATO and boasting a Leupold Mark IV 10 x 40 mm telescopic sight, was nominally for Gary Manning’s use, though any of the Phoenix Force commandos could deploy the rifle if need be.
Each of the men carried their pistols, nominally concealed in Kydex or leather holsters under the desert-tan BDUs each man wore. James, Encizo and Hawkins had opted for the standard Beretta M-9s. Manning carried an old favorite, his .357 Magnum Desert Eagle. For his part, McCarter could not forsake his Browning Hi-Power, which was as much a part of his identity as the pack of Player’s cigarettes he carried.
Each member of Phoenix Force carried a few other nasty surprises. Before they’d left, Kissinger had passed around a pile of long, black cardboard boxes, doling them out like candy. Each was marked with the slogan For Those Who Serve. McCarter couldn’t care less for marketing, but he knew serviceable steel when he saw it. Each man in his command was armed with something sharp and deadly as a result. All of them had opted for fixed blades. McCarter carried a Triumph neck knife under his BDUs, slung under his shoulder on a paracord harness, that acted like a makeshift shoulder harness and allowed the knife to hang handle-down under his arm.
The team entered the building, leaving Hawkins with the truck. At the front desk, McCarter introduced the team only as the “U.S. delegation.” They were ushered into the office of the deputy commissioner, Kamal Jignesh.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Jignesh said pleasantly in accented English, inviting them in from behind his desk. There were only two chairs. McCarter and Manning took seats, while the rest of the team stood behind them. “We of the West Khasi Hills district deeply regret the difficulty that the Consortium experienced. We will do whatever we can to cooperate in your investigation.”
McCarter nodded, studying Jignesh. He was a short, somewhat plump man, wearing a lightweight suit that looked a size too big. His hair was receding over a wrinkled forehead and plump, deeply set features. While his face smiled, his eyes held something else. Fear? Suspicion? McCarter couldn’t place it. He flashed his papers.
“Deputy Commissioner,” McCarter said,
