Triplecross. Don Pendleton

the hell was that?”

      Footsteps in the corridor to their immediate left signaled that more personnel were coming up the hallway toward where they stood near the hub. The footfalls were fast, heavy and purposeful. It was the sound of troops moving in for the kill, if Lyons had to guess.

      “That was active jamming,” Schwarz said. “Our friends have the means to blanket the RF and shut us out.”

      “Does that mean what I think it means?” Lyons asked. “I thought these were satellite phones?”

      “The transceivers are RF,” Schwarz said. “For short range.”

      “I’ve got movement!” Blancanales announced. He went to one knee and braced his M-4 against the corner of the hallway junction. “Multiple contacts, coming up fast and using the offices for cover. They’re walking up two by two.”

      “More over here,” Schwarz said. He pressed himself against the wall near the spoke opposite Blancanales. “Carl, they’ve got us pinned between them.”

      “So we’ve got multiple hostiles inbound who have superior position,” Lyons said. “And our only means of calling in backup is hosed.”

      “Until we can find the source of the jamming, yes,” Schwarz said. “We’re completely cut off.”

      “How does that movie go?” Blancanales asked.

      “Everybody dies,” Schwarz said.

      The enemy shooters charged.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      Jammu, Kashmir

      “That’s it,” Hawkins said, peering through a pair of compact field glasses. “The dossier on Jamali says his personal logo is the Pakistani military insignia superimposed on a red field.”

      McCarter, crouched next to Hawkins on the ridge overlooking the small encampment of Jamali fighters, nodded.

      “That’s how they confuse the issue,” Encizo added. “Gera does the same thing. He uses the Indian military symbology, but next to a series of black slashes to signify territory conquered. If you’re not looking for the differences you’ll just identify their rogue elements as part of the main Pakistani and Indian militaries. It’s a nasty tactic. Sure to put the two countries at each other’s throats, just as it’s done.”

      “Well, not for too much longer,” McCarter vowed. “We’re going to put the hurt on them both.” He turned to Encizo. “Is the Farm still tracking that contingent of Gera’s forces?” he asked.

      “Yes.” Encizo nodded. “We have real-time satellite surveillance on them. They’re a ways out yet.”

      “Text Barb and ask her if we can get some generic chatter spliced into their local airspace,” McCarter directed. “Something that will make Gera’s people wonder what’s going on and give them the itch to investigate. We can do that, can’t we?”

      “As long as there’s a way for Bear to reach out through the ether and touch them, yes,” Encizo said. “Why?”

      “I want to draw Gera’s people here,” McCarter explained. “Give both contingents a bloody nose at the same time.”

      “What happens if we overplay it?” Manning asked. He was crouched alongside James. The MRAP vehicles were parked in the shadow of a tall stone outcropping that was dusted with snow. Rather than gang-bust their way through the camp below in the vehicles, McCarter had opted for an infiltration on foot. The plan was to destroy the Jamali scouting party from within. This would give them a chance to gather any intelligence there was to be had, while putting them up close and personal with Jamali’s forces. Such men operated on the basest of animal levels. They understood fear and they understood strength. McCarter was going to put them on notice by showing them the latter and, in so doing, instilling a healthy dose of the former.

      “Concern noted, mate,” McCarter said, nodding again. “And you’re right—if we don’t time this right, we end up caught between the two forces, which nobody wants or needs. So let’s be brisk in dealing with Jamali’s men. Remember—we want to make an impression.”

      Manning loaded the grenade launcher of his Tavor.

      “Forty mike-mike makes an impression, all right,” James said “So do those RPGs you’re lugging around.” Manning had the heavy rocket-propelled grenade launcher on his back, together with the launcher. He was large enough to be able to carry that load without it inhibiting his mobility. There weren’t a lot of men with his combat time who could boast that, even in circles as elite as the one in which Phoenix Force traveled.

      “Let’s move, lads,” McCarter said.

      Half crouching, gliding along from heel to toe, the men of Phoenix Force spread out and began descending, traversing the decline and closing on the scouts’ camp. Jamali’s men had a pair of Toyota trucks with machine guns mounted in the beds. They also had a canvas-covered, six-wheeled troop truck. These were parked at three points around the camp, forming a triangle, while the scouts had erected tents in the intervening space. They had set sentries, too, but not enough of them. McCarter had been watching them walk their patterns and had deliberately timed Phoenix Force’s movements to take advantage of a gap in their coverage.

      “Grenades, get ready,” McCarter said softly. His words left a trail of frozen vapor that crystallized on his face. He pulled his mottled cold-weather neck wrap tighter around his face. The generic camouflage pattern of his fatigues matched that of his scarflike wrap, which was really just a big square of fabric folded over on itself several times. The gloves McCarter and the rest of the team wore were easily some of the most expensive on the market. They were durable and they insulated the hand but did not add too much bulk, allowing the soldiers of Phoenix Force to fight in cold weather without giving up too much dexterity.

      Someone within the perimeter of the camp shouted an alarm. Phoenix Force had been spotted. McCarter had been counting on that. They had done what they needed to do, which was put themselves in the scouts’ midst before the enemy gunmen knew what was happening to them.

      “Fire,” McCarter ordered.

      His four teammates opened up with their 40 mm grenade launchers. Two grenades each struck the front of the first pickup and the rear of the second. Each vehicle was shoved aside by the explosions. The mounted machine guns were torn and bent and the vehicles themselves were rendered inoperable. The gas tank of one of the trucks exploded in a brief orange fireball.

      Phoenix Force broke formation. The veteran counterterrorists ran for cover, threading their way through the tents of the scout camp, firing their Tavors in measured bursts. McCarter no longer felt the cold once the battle started. He stopped feeling anything at all except alert and awake, focused on the battle that now unfolded in front of him.

      That was always how combat had been for him: a focusing of his mind to an almost painful acuity, giving him the data he needed to assess the threats before him and deal out force, mete out violence, as was required for the task at hand. Dispassionate, his trainers in the SAS had called it. It was all well and good to be angry, to let anger, even hatred, fuel your battle. But when it came to actually taking a man’s life—or the lives of a hundred men, for that matter—you had to maintain your detachment. You had to see them as what they were: targets, obstacles to be removed. That was why McCarter took no pleasure in removing even men like these, brutal though both Jamali’s and Gera’s rogue forces were reported to be.

      It was simply time to remove some obstacles.

      “T.J., Gary, left,” McCarter instructed. “Rafe, Calvin, right. Flank them and walk them toward the center. I’ll come straight up the middle.”

      A chorus of affirmatives sounded through his transceiver. McCarter used the wreckage of one of the pickups to shield him from enemy gunfire as he took up his position. The flames from the second truck nearby were hot enough that he felt them as he waited on one knee. No time to cozy up to a campfire now, though, he