Orbital Velocity. Don Pendleton

been hit. The memory of his partner came unbidden, and he clenched his teeth.

      “Don’t think about it,” he told himself, putting one foot in front of the other. Each step was closer to civilization, another step toward warning the world of what was going on. He checked his watch; it was only hours since the rocket went up.

      That didn’t mean much, Carmichael calculated. At orbital velocities, whatever had been launched could have gone around the world a dozen times in just sixty minutes. He could just be too late to raise the alarm that death would be raining down from above.

      If that was the case, Carmichael would have to bring in someone to avenge those killed, including his best friend. Raw anger gnawed at him along with the willingness to channel that rage.

      Carmichael glanced over his shoulder again, looking back toward the jungle-camouflaged base. He frowned as he realized that the enemy wouldn’t give up. There was someone on his trail, willing to enter the sprawling rainforest basin to keep their secret. They couldn’t afford to let Carmichael reach civilization alive. Once he spoke, they would die.

      Carmichael had only given himself a lead on the enemy; he hadn’t given them the slip. He didn’t know what kind of cushion he had. Slowing down would be the only rest he could get. Stopping for any length of time would give his hunters a chance to catch up. He wiped his brow and sighed. There were only two spare magazines for his Kalashnikov, giving him ninety rounds for the rifle, and the four magazines for the 1911 he used for a sidearm. He also had five shots for the tiny .357 Magnum Centennial he wore in the small of his back, but if it got down to handguns, especially the two-inch-barreled snubby, he was doomed. The enemy would have a full combat kit and outnumber him at least four to one, putting him at a disadvantage when it came to a fight.

      Arcado’s advice, from back when Carmichael was a rookie operative for the DoD, came to mind. “Guns make you fight stupid. Sure, firepower could possibly save your ass when it comes to bad-breath distance, but if you want to fight smart, you stay away from fights. And if you can’t avoid a fight, then don’t fight stupid. But I don’t have to tell you that. When you’re in the shit, you’ll be scared. And when you’re scared, you’ll fight smart.”

      It wasn’t until Carmichael had read Sun Tzu’s The Art of War that he realized that Arcado was paraphrasing the brilliant Chinese general. Carmichael paused and assessed his situation.

      What were his strengths? He knew how to get through a jungle and survive off the land, thanks to his Robin Sage Green Beret training. As only one man, he was a low-profile target, making him more mobile and able to hide in smaller places. He knew he was being hunted, and he knew how vital it was for the enemy to capture him, so he could gauge how much force they had and how well-skilled his pursuers would be. He knew in which direction he’d been heading as he smashed his trail through the rainforest while moving at full-tilt.

      What were his enemy’s strengths? They outnumbered him. They outgunned him. They had a home-field advantage. They had communications and could call on extra resources if necessary. They were trackers, and they had been good enough to be within sweating distance for at least the first hour of their pursuit. They were smart enough to ease up and let Carmichael burn himself out running like hell, so they had been resting for the past two hours while he exerted energy and used up vital reserves.

      Carmichael was already painfully aware of his weaknesses; no apparent water source to replenish his lost fluids, low on ammo, far from his allies. Carmichael looked for their weaknesses, even as he trod through the jungle, taking care to move slowly and easily, not breaking branches or tearing leaves with his passage. He made certain to step on exposed roots and fallen, heavy branches to minimize his footprints, though most of them were readily swallowed by the thick undergrowth that somehow thrived on faint rays of sunlight that had penetrated the forest canopy.

      “There are more of them, so moving quietly will be more difficult for them,” Carmichael reminded himself. As he made that assessment, he added another strength that they possessed over him. Because they had numbers, they could fake him out, distracting him with a larger number, thus herding him toward a scout who would be moving singly and with stealth.

      “They have confidence,” Carmichael said. “They have the perception of certain superiority. I know I’m in the hole.”

      He went back to Arcado’s words. “When you’re scared, you’ll fight smart.”

      Carmichael continued his march. He was scared, but his training and determination kept him from blind panic. The shots of fear kept him wary, attuned, in a state where his body was able to pump all manner of energy into fight or flight, but his mental processes were clear and focused.

      “Survive for David,” Carmichael told himself as he continued into the dark rainforest, demons nipping at his heels.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      Maryland

      Rosario Blancanales lowered his binoculars as Hermann Schwarz pulled up behind his van. He was parked far enough from the biker bar that even the four men who were watching the near side of the perimeter wouldn’t notice the arrival. Just the same, Schwarz had kept his headlights off. It was a couple of hours before dawn, and Schwarz’s vehicle was a low-profile, nonreflective dark blue. He joined Blancanales in the van.

      “Did I miss anything?” Schwarz asked. He looked Blancanales over, and noticed that he was dressed in dark blue overalls with a county waste-management patch. “Oh, the old Dumpster trick?”

      “Slapped a sign on the side of the van, rolled up behind the bar, got called a spic by the troglodytes working security,” Blancanales said.

      “Didn’t they wonder why you weren’t driving a garbage truck?” Schwarz asked.

      “Dumpster inspection. Clipboard and a few stickers and said that their can wouldn’t need to be replaced because of the rust on the bottom if I got a few bucks,” Blancanales explained.

      “That’s one way to get your ass stomped by those slope-headed knuckle draggers,” Schwarz growled. “Yet I note the lack of bruises.”

      “Sure way to find out that these pricks are doing some serious dirt if they don’t want to draw attention by smacking a county worker around,” Blancanales answered.

      “So it could be a gun or drug deal,” Schwarz noted, musing. “But if that were the case, they’d have brought some vans and automobiles.”

      “This is a rabble-rousing meeting,” Blancanales said. “Just standing out back I heard them revving the crowd with hate metal.”

      Schwarz frowned. “Sure?”

      “I could hear the lyrics,” Blancanales said. “And I can’t make a mistake about Nick Cobb and Night Heat.”

      Schwarz nodded. Able Team, as a component of their general domestic awareness, made certain to keep an eye on two particular brands of music. One was narcocorridas, the songs glorifying the life of Mexican and Central American drug dealers. It was a genre of music that had expanded into Texas, Arizona, Nevada and California. The other genre of music they kept familiar with was the aforementioned “hate metal” or “white power rock,” which was far more widespread than the chosen medium of the Latino drug dealers. Rosario Blancanales, the son of Puerto Ricans who had immigrated to the U.S. to give their children a good life, had taken a special interest in Nick Cobb and his band, Night Heat, a group of so-called Minutemen who sang the anthems of the white supremacists, the same racists who corrupted the immigration-reform movement. Cobb and his group jabbed a raw nerve on the first-generation-American Blancanales, so he became intimately familiar with the bigoted venom they spewed as a form of political protest.