Citadel Of Fear. Don Pendleton

the munitions and made a noise of approval.

      “Mr. Propenko?” McCarter inquired.

      Propenko showed a rare smile. “Blue Blitz.”

      McCarter was aware of it. “Knock-out gas.”

      Manning lowered his pistol.

      Ukov grinned hopefully. “Thirty cartridges, if it pleases?”

      McCarter gazed down at the young Russian. “Well, you romantic schemer, you.”

      * * *

       Gulf of Gdansk

      ABLE TEAM WAITED, along with three members of Phoenix Force, for the imminent attack. Carl Lyons looked over their defenses one more time. The situation wasn’t as bad as it could be. Barbara Price had once again done very well for them with very little. The Polish duck-hunting lodge was more than a hundred years old. The walls were made of heavy stone-and-mortar masonry. The windows were narrow, could almost be described as firing slits and had heavy shutters to resist Baltic storms. The front, side and back doors were incredibly thick, iron-bound oak that looked as if they might be petrifying rather than weathering. Most of the house was bulletproof up to .30 caliber. The main approach to the lodge was a bit of raised single-lane road with wetlands overgrown with small trees on either side. The house sat on an acre or two of raised land with larger willows and alders forming a tiny forest. Behind the house the land fell away into a genuine fen that turned into a duck hunter’s dream of a swamp that drained into the gulf.

      It was cold and wet and wretched, but it was defendable.

      The lay of the land was in the Stony Man team’s favor, and out in the fen sat Jack Grimaldi in Dragonslayer. The chopper still wore her pontoons but she had machine guns slaved atop each one of them and rocket pods on stalks on either side of the fuselage. All of the equipment was mounted with explosive bolts and could be ejected into the marsh with the press of a button.

      Encizo had built a cheery fire and his teammates chewed duck jerky and dunked black bread into steaming mugs of black tea with lemon and honey. Lyons lifted his chin as the wind moaned against the shutters. He almost felt bad for Calvin James. The Navy SEAL was somewhere out there in the wind, rain, darkness and muck watching the main approach to the lodge. It was a shit detail, but of course that was what SEALs did.

      Lyons clicked his com unit. “How’s it hanging, Cal? Cold as a well digger’s ass?”

      “Gdansk is God’s country,” James replied dryly. “I’m coming back.”

      “Copy that.” Lyons looked to Schwarz and checked his watch. Schwarz sat by his laptop and a small array of communications and security gear. He’d spent the day putting surveillance gear and some unpleasant surprises for trespassers around the manse. “How are we doing?”

      “We have two more hours of satellite window, then we are going to have a half-hour gap before the Farm can get eyes on us again. We’ve—” Schwarz sat straight as his computer pinged a message from McCarter.

      Coming in hard

      “We’ve got Wolf Pack on the way!” Schwarz announced.

      Lyons strode over and messaged back.

      Come and get it

      Kurtzman’s window popped up on Schwarz’s screen. “Able. Be advised. You have major movement to the north and south.”

      Lyons leaned over and looked at the satellite image. They had heat signatures, and a lot of them. “Wolf Pack is coming in from the east.”

      “Affirmative.”

      “Where the hell did these guys come from?”

      Kurtzman wasn’t happy. The bad guys had snuck under his radar. “It’s like they popped up out of the earth.”

      Lyons wasn’t happy, either. The bad guys had managed to get into the swamp behind them. “So we have to assume Wolf Pack has been compromised.”

      “We always did.”

      “And they are heading into cross fire.”

      “That is correct. I already informed them.”

      “Tell Jack to get airborne, message McCarter and tell him to plan B as hard as he can.”

      “Copy that.”

      The Able Team leader took up his weapon. “Able! Gear up! Here it comes!”

      * * *

       The Game Room

      PYLE SAT HUNCHED in front of his massive screen. His fingers hammered his keyboard. “They’re communicating!”

      “With whom?” Kun asked.

      “It’s scrambled. They have to be bouncing it off a satellite.”

      “How many satellites could be giving them real-time imaging and intelligence?”

      “No. It’s communication. It could be being bounced from multiple—”

      “That is not what I asked you.”

      Pyle flinched and, nervous habit, tugged at his nose ring. “You think they’re piggy-backing?”

      “Currently, somewhere on this planet,” Kun stated what to him was completely obvious, “there is a room much like this one. Inside it there are men, much like us. They are our real enemies. We are not taking advantage of poor native criminals or guerilla fighters in Africa or a ‘Stan’ country. We have encountered another genuine player. I am not sure whether they are state-sponsored, rogue or deniables. Regardless, we have a real game on hour hands.”

      Pyle called up his file on all satellites and their orbits. “Checking.”

      Rong sat in front of three screens swiping his fingers across them to pull up and expand images. This was the action, and absolutely the part of his job he loved. It was a cross between a strategy game and a first-person shooter, but the blood and the stakes were real. Not for him, but nevertheless it gave him a thrill as none other. Seventy-two hours ago, the first Battle of Gdansk, as Rong liked to call it, was the first battle he had ever lost since moving from online gaming to gaming with human lives in the Game Room. That loss still stung. A lot.

      He watched the enhanced thermal images of Propenko and the meat shields sweeping toward the lodge in a very professional manner and felt a glimmer of foreboding. “I don’t like this Alpha, International Man of Mystery bastard, him or his Wolf Pack. I don’t like them at all.”

      Kun watched his screens. He didn’t like Alpha and his Wolf Pack, either, except for the fact that he loved them. Kun loved challenges. He lit a cigarette, reached into his mini-fridge and mixed himself the single vodka martini he would allow himself until the battle was over. Kun normally didn’t care for alcohol or its effects, as it dulled his senses for the experiences he enjoyed the most, but in battle the prop was important to him. His team perked up at the sight of him mixing it.