Maelstrom. Don Pendleton

Davidia knew the shells were nonlethal—their noses packed with iridescent orange powder versus high explosives—but they weren’t the object of his attention. The mechanism of delivery was what took center stage. That weapon, and the others like it, being demonstrated at the fifth annual Defence Science and Technology Organisation Land Weapons Conference, was what had brought the Resurrected Defense League to Australia. It was this technology that he wanted—no, had—to possess, and the reason the men with him now sat and waited patiently, professionally.

      Davidia lowered the binoculars and looked at the shadowy figures seated near him, illuminated only by the small opening in the side of their shelter. The fourteen-foot moving truck stunk of sweat mixed with anticipation and fear. Davidia knew those scents well; he’d known them from his adolescent years growing up in the heart of Brooklyn. Those had been the hardest times of his life. He was the youngest son of Jewish parents who barely escaped the Holocaust only to find another war for survival going on in their own neighborhood. Nonetheless, he’d done his part for his country, serving four years in the Marine Corps, including a stint in Operation Desert Storm, and returned to New York afterward to become a police officer on beat patrol in his old stomping grounds. Life hadn’t always been easy, but he’d been happy until called off shift early one morning to have the police chaplain tell him a surprised burglar murdered his wife, a burglar whose attorney got him off on a technicality by proposing that the police had discriminated against the man because he was Palestinian.

      Determined to right a wrong, Davidia joined the Jewish Defense League and even spent a short time with a radical Jewish activist group conducting underground operations in New York City, but one too many protests in the streets, one too many acts of violence, eventually led to a demand for his resignation. Davidia didn’t go quietly. He found his wife’s murderer and put a bullet in the guy’s head before renouncing his citizenship and fleeing America. Eventually, Davidia founded the Resurrected Defense League. He trained his mind and his body, honing the military skills Uncle Sam taught him and the terror tactics gleaned from membership in the Kach-Kahane Chai to a sharp edge. It had all led up to this day. This would be the day that he would reveal his abilities for the first time since his self-imposed exile. The RDL was about to make a statement the world would never forget.

      Davidia nodded with assurance to his lieutenant before raising his voice just loud enough. In Hebrew he said, “We move in two minutes. Weapons check.”

      They had timed the operation down to the final second, laid out every part of the demonstration grounds to the last detail. His men knew every corner of this area and they were familiar with every street in Adelaide. They had spent months visiting the area, mapping various escape routes and planning for every possible scenario. They had to do this to insure the success of their mission and secure escape. Davidia knew the weapons he sought were prototypes, but the RDL’s engineers were waiting at a secret location far from here, a location known only to him and his lieutenant, Boaz Rasham. If something happened to one of them, the other could still accomplish the objectives. If both of them bought it, the mission was terminated and the men were under clear orders to cover and conceal, and escape by any means possible. Capture or surrender was unacceptable.

      His organization wasn’t large, maybe 150 in membership with about triple that in financial supporters, but it was a force big enough to implement Davidia’s plans. Years before, the Kach-Kahane Chai had attempted to utilize a technological device to effectively end the conflicts on the West Bank once and for all. Unfortunately the plan had failed, thwarted by Mossad agents and Americans from an unknown organization. Davidia left the Kach-Kahane Chai and took his staunchest supporters with him. He knew that ending the war between Israel and the Palestinians would never truly stop the oppression. No, the only way to stop their sworn enemies was to utterly eradicate them. Davidia’s plans called for the total extinction of those vermin, and the most ingenious part was that the nations of the world would do most of the work—starting with America.

      “Thirty seconds,” Davidia announced as he stored the binoculars. The terrorist leader then checked the action on the mini-Uzi, putting the weapon in battery before letting it dangle at his side by its strap. Davidia then swung one leg over his seat and positioned himself comfortably on the seat of the four-wheel ATV.

      The sound of ATV engines being started echoed loudly inside the confines of the semi-trailer. There were twelve ATVs in all, each one manned by the very best of Davidia’s soldiers. These were the cream of the crop, the most experienced members of the RDL’s strike teams. Davidia had handpicked the crew for this mission, given its importance. The success of their action now would set the stage for the rest of his plans and he couldn’t afford to let anything go wrong. These men were his first, best insurance policy against any eventualities. They would succeed—God was with them.

      Davidia nodded to Rasham, who would stay behind with the truck and prepare for the return of the men and their spoils. The man grabbed the door release and heaved. The sunlight nearly blinded them as the door rolled upward and Rasham kicked out the ramp. The ramp dropped to the ground with a clang that was drowned by the roar of the first ATV engine as its rider rolled out with a pop of the clutch.

      Davidia revved the engine of the ATV and anxiously waited his turn to exit the trailer. It was time to make history.

      CHAPTER ONE

      His name was David McCarter, and he was team leader to some of the most dangerous men on earth.

      The fox-faced Briton turned to study the profile of one of those men now. Just the way the man held his tall and lanky form betrayed his readiness, and his sharp, brown eyes intently searched their field of fire. In all the years McCarter had known this man, he’d come to respect his professionalism and integrity, not to mention his skills in the heat of action. This guy could hold it together in the toughest situation. He was a first-rate soldier.

      Calvin James cast a sideways glance at first notice that McCarter was watching him, then turned his head fully and grinned at the Phoenix Force leader. “What?”

      “Just thinking,” McCarter replied, turning his attention back to their assigned watch.

      “Well, if you like what you see, I’m free Saturday night,” James cracked.

      “You’re not my type, mate,” McCarter said, grinning. Then the smile disappeared. “Actually, I was just wondering when Hal sent us out on this bloody mission if you might have been thinking the same thing I was.”

      James shrugged and scratched his chin. “What, that this is a waste of resources? Much as I hate to admit it, any decent security team could have handled this. We should be out chasing down bad guys, not baby-sitting a bunch of tight-assed military contractors.”

      McCarter chuckled and said, “You got to start saying how you really feel about stuff, Cal. You hold back too much.”

      “Well, I can’t believe you disagree. Say it isn’t so.”

      “Maybe a little,” he admitted. “But remember that Hal sent us here to get a feel for these new weapons systems. Kissinger has him convinced they’ll be useful in the field for future operations.”

      James nodded toward the field. “Yeah, and Cowboy’s down there right now in the firing area with a ringside seat to this circus. We should be down there with him instead of standing on the sidelines and feeding peanuts to the elephants.”

      John “Cowboy” Kissinger was the top weapons smith for Stony Man Farm, America’s premier counterterrorist organization, and one of her best-kept and most effective secrets. It was Kissinger who had convinced Harold Brognola, chief of the Stony Man operation, to let the members of Phoenix Force accompany him to Australia for their first look at the weapons of the future. Naturally, Phoenix Force was on call at a moment’s notice at all times, ready to be dropped into anything, at anytime and in any place. Nonetheless, all of its men were consummate professionals who had taken the job without complaint, and McCarter couldn’t have asked for more. Still, James was right—this was a waste of talent.

      McCarter chuckled. “You’re beginning to sound as cynical as Carl.”

      Before