that’s about the only goddamn good thing about this whole mess.”
“So why call me? Can’t find them?”
The man’s mind moved like lightning. “That’s about the size of it. The rendezvous point was in London somewhere and the Brits are having a fit over this going down in their backyard without their okay. MI-5 has every agent on the hunt, with the city sealed tighter than a virgin on prom night. The SAS and the CIA are tearing the countryside apart trying to find the mercs, but so far nothing. Meanwhile, the PM is screaming bloody murder at the White House.”
“Can’t blame him,” Bolan said calmly. “If another country had tried that here, we’d tear them a new one.”
“At least one, maybe two.”
“Got an ID on the mercs?”
“Yeah.” Brognola sighed, leaning forward in his chair and lifting a Top Secret file from the clutter on his desk. “I’m holding their Agency dossier in my hand. The Scion. Know them?”
There was a short pause. “Never heard of them before. Give me the basics and have the full dossier sent to a drop site at Grand Central Train Station.”
“No problem,” he said, opening the file. “Okay, their leader is a guy named Cirello Zalhares—”
Interrupting, Bolan grunted at that. “Wait, big Brazilian guy, used to work for the S2,” he said. “Works with Dog Mariano, Minas Pedrosa, and a woman, Jorgina something. A real looker, loves knives.”
“Jorgina Mizne, that’s them.”
“So Zalhares now calls his group of mercenaries the Scion? Yeah, that sounds like right. He always did enjoy grandstanding.”
“Christ, Striker,” Brognola said with a dry chuckle. “Have you got every freelance killer in the entire world locked in that mental file of yours?”
“Only the live ones,” Bolan said humorously. And yeah, he knew them. An elite group of mercs who were all former S2 agents cashiered out of the service for various crimes against their fellow police officers: murder, rape, blackmail, torture and worse. During the communications blackout, Phoenix Force had had a brief encounter with the S2 when they tried to flee Brazil. They were serious hardcases, tougher than any of the street soldiers from the Mafia or the defunct KGB.
“Is this intel hard?” Bolan demanded.
“Confirmed and double-checked,” Brognola replied. “Now we have the Middle East sealed tight, and the leader of every known terrorist group under surveillance, along with the arms dealers and top smugglers.”
“Now you want the unknown groups covered,” Bolan said slowly. “Then I’m in the right town. If anything big like this is coming into America, I have contacts in New York who will know.”
“Just one more thing, Striker. You should know that these are kamikaze models. Shoot one, and even if its not already armed, the bomb detonates automatically. The Zodiacs have to be recovered intact and undamaged.”
“Then the sooner I move, the better the chances they won’t be damaged,” Bolan said unruffled. “Talk to you later, Hal.”
“Hold the line, Striker,” Brognola said as the encrypted fax machine whined into life on his desk. “I have a report coming in from the Oval Office…. Well, I’ll be a son of bitch. We found them! The Brits got an anonymous tip from a reliable source that an Australian cargo ship, Tullamarine, is ferrying the Zodiacs out of England. The captain has refused to turn around for an inspection and now they’re pretending the radio and cell phone are all dead. RAF fighters are on the way to do a recon.”
For a moment Bolan said nothing.
“Looks like this was a lot of excitement over nothing, old friend. We have them cornered.”
“Hal, recall those planes,” Bolan stated firmly. “I’m betting that anonymous tip came from Zalhares.”
“But why would he do that?”
“Trust me, Hal. It’s some sort of trick. Recall those planes.”
Just then, the fax whined once more, extruding another encrypted report. “Too late,” Brognola said out loud, reading fast. “The RAF has already engaged the Scion.”
CHAPTER TWO
Norwegian Sea
Dropping out of the clouds at 990 mph, the five RAF jetfighters streaked toward the Atlantic Ocean until they were skimming along the water barely above the waves. At these speeds, a single twitch of a hand on the joystick or an unexpected thermal, and the multimillion dollar fighters would go straight into the drink. However, the risk was worth it. At this height, the jets would be practically invisible to any ship’s radar until it was far too late and they were in camera range.
“Wing Commander Lovejoy, this is Vivatar,” a nasally voice said into the earphones of the pilots. The RAF controller was using the code name for the local UK air base. “Permission to fire has been granted by the PM. Repeat, you may arm all weapon systems.”
The Prime minister? Bloody hell. “Roger, Vivatar, confirm,” Captain Adrian “Lovejoy” Scott said into his helmet microphone. “Will recon first for friendlies, then proceed to disable engines. Over.”
“Roger and confirmed, Lovejoy. Good hunting, chaps!”
“Disable their engines, my arse,” Shadowboxer said on the pilot-to-pilot channel. “We should blow the bastards out of the water. Miniature nukes, just how crazy are those damn Yanks?” From the rear seat of the two-man Tornado G1-B, his navigator wholeheartedly agreed.
“Cut the chatter, Shadow,” Lovejoy ordered as the radar beeped and a tiny image appeared on the horizon. Preset, the video screen on the dashboard did a zoom to show a cargo ship bearing Australian markings. “Okay, there it is. I’m going in for an ident, Merlin and Red Cat stay on my wings. Shadowboxer, Crippen, maintain position.”
Dropping out of Mach, the front three delta-shaped Jaguars slowed their speed as the two sleek Tornados folded back their wings to peel away at full throttle, soon reaching Mach 2.5, and began to widely arch around the target zone.
With the cool air whispering past the bubble canopies of the Jaguars, the choppy Norwegian Sea below was sable in color, the dull gray cargo ship almost lost in the sheer vastness of the ocean. Which was probably the whole idea, Lovejoy thought.
Still slowing their approach, the three Jaguars flew past the Tullamarine with their video cameras on automatic. The wide cargo ship was probably moving at its top speed, but compared to the British jetfighters it might as well have been nailed in place.
On the dashboard of his jet fighter, Commander Lovejoy studied the relayed pictures from the belly cameras. The infrared scanners had focused on every human-size thermal and showed only sharp images of armed men on the decks. No women, or children, and nobody who appeared to be held as a hostage. Nothing but a room-by-room search would ever truly show if the vessel was completely clear of innocent people, but this was the best the RAF pilots could do at the moment. With any luck, the crew would surrender and the question of civilians would never arise.
“It’s
