make has never been exported for purchase.”
“So whoever acquired it probably did so in-country,” McCarter concluded.
Gary Manning cleared his throat and all eyes turned toward him.
“Al Qaeda still has pretty strong ties in that area,” Manning reminded the team. “If this was a terrorist operation and they were using those kinds of weapons, then I’d say they’re our most likely candidate.”
McCarter nodded. “That’s a bloody good assessment, mate.”
“The Panamanian government’s very concerned about the timing of this whole thing,” Brognola said. “Especially in light of the recent handoff of all canal operations to local oversight.”
“Didn’t they also pass some recent legislation to fund reconstruction and upgrade efforts?” Encizo asked.
Price nodded. “Yes, and some of those operations are already under way, although not in this particular area. Less than ten percent of the structures in Gamboa are even occupied, and there’s only one resort to service the tourist population.”
“Not to mention this is the off-season,” Brognola added.
“Gamboa thrived when it acted as a township under the old Panama Canal Zone,” Price continued, “but with the return of its resources to Panama officials, the departure of U.S. citizens and servicemen living there turned the place into a virtual ghost town.”
“I don’t get it,” James said. “If this wasn’t about drugs and these were actual terrorists, al Qaeda or otherwise, what the hell was the point? They didn’t blow anything up other than one small patrol boat, and they obviously didn’t stick around very long. What gives?”
“I think that’s what we’re going down there to find out,” McCarter replied.
“Exactly,” Price said. “Your local contact will be a Panamanian official from the First VP’s office. A CIA operative from the embassy in Panama City will also meet you in Gamboa.”
“Why’s the Company involved?” James asked suspiciously.
“They’re not,” Brognola replied. “This guy’s merely on an intelligence-gathering mission for the official reports. He’s been advised of your arrival. Both of these men have been told to give you their full cooperation, so it’s your show. All the way.”
“Dandy,” McCarter said with a grin. “Just the way I like it.”
CHAPTER TWO
U.S.-Mexican Border
Rosario “The Politician” Blancanales had known better days. Huge droplets of sweat rolled off his head and slid slowly down his neck and along his spine like globules of oil. His body ached, his shirt was soaked at waist and armpits and he had hunger pangs such as he’d never before experienced. The temperature had already reached nearly one hundred degrees with about ninety percent humidity, and it wasn’t even noon yet. He’d consumed nearly an entire canteen of water and a couple of salt tablets and still his tongue felt like 20-grade sandpaper. Blancanales removed his utility cap, wiped at the sweat on his forehead and behind his ears with an OD green hanky and then replaced his cover.
Squinting in the bright sun, the Able Team warrior studied the profile of the muscular man who stood next to him talking on a cell phone. The man’s frosty blue eyes stared with moderate interest at the work in progress in front of them. Some might have called this man a work in progress, but Blancanales knew better. Time and the brutal reality of urban combat had hardened and shaped this guy into the most rock-steady man it had ever been Blancanales’s pleasure to know.
“Yeah, I understand. Out, here,” Carl “Ironman” Lyons said, and then disconnected the call.
“Hal?” Blancanales inquired.
Lyons nodded. “Yeah. Says they just sent Phoenix down to Panama. Some kind of major shit hit the fan down there. Naturally, they took Jack, and Charlie’s somewhere with Mack.”
“So no dedicated wings for the ride home.”
“Nope,” Lyons said. “Says once we’re finished to give them a call and they’ll get us on the first MAC flight out of Fort Bliss.”
“Why so grumpy, Carl?” Blancanales asked. “Lighten up some and put on a happy face.”
“This is my happy face,” Lyons said with a sideways glance at his friend. He nodded toward another man working with the group near a ten-foot-high wall fifty yards from their position and added, “When’s Gadgets going to be finished with these eggheads already?”
Hermann Schwarz, whose wizardry and expertise in electronic surveillance and countersurveillance had earned him the “Gadgets” moniker, stopped to look at his two friends as if he had somehow read Lyons’s mind. He held up one hand in the “gimme five more minutes” sign and Lyons returned the gesture with a nod, although the look on the Able Team leader’s face said he was none too happy about having to continue waiting.
Lyons hadn’t been keen on taking the assignment to start with, Blancanales knew, but when in the service of an organization like Stony Man they didn’t get to pick and choose their assignments. And to some degree, each of them possessed some significant expertise in this particular endeavor. Lyons, of course, had a background as an LAPD cop dealing with illegal immigrants from Mexico on practically a daily basis and Blancanales, a man raised in East L.A., knew just about everything there was to know about border crossings. Finally, Schwarz had the greatest impact on this mission because of his significant expertise in electronic surveillance measures.
The End Zone Project was the baby of numerous computer scientists at Sandia Laboratories in New Mexico. Designed around two integral technologies—Forward Area Alerting Radar and Low-Altitude Navigation and Targeting for Night—End Zone had the ability to not only detect when someone attempted to cross the border illegally, but further could deliver several neutralizing mechanisms to stun and immobilize the subject until Border Patrol units could arrive and take custody. End Zone had passed its final trials in time for implementation into the new border wall under construction by the U.S. Army’s Corps of Engineers.
The President had stressed the importance of the success of the project, not just because of its political and social ramifications, but also due to the increased violence resulting from unrest between the various special-interest groups keeping the topic of immigration hot.
“Mostly, we just want you to keep the peace and ensure domestic tranquillity,” Brognola had concluded in their mission briefing.
“Marvelous,” had been Lyons’s reply.
Now as they stood and watched their friend at work, Blancanales said with a smirk, “See there, the look on Gadgets’s face? See how happy you’ve made him?”
Lyons shook his head. “Whatever gets you through the day.”
The pair turned and ascended the steps that led into the Tactical Operations Center, a trailer-mounted facility that looked like a rail car, and the only air-conditioned building for miles. The place was relatively cool compared to the blistering heat outside. A small refrigerator in one corner contained shelves of soft drinks and bottled water.
Blancanales
