Ramrod Intercept. Don Pendleton

sandy bottom began to run off on a gradual downward slant, and he was thinking another fifty yards or so.

      An eternity still.

      He decided to look back, found McCarter falling behind, eyeing their rear through his mask, as if he sensed its presence.

      And the massive shadow of the great beast appeared, materialized out of the darkness beyond the minisub. For some reason the monster was taking another look at the minisub, holding, some black demonic apparition, then slowly worked its massive body around the craft. Hawkins felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked at Encizo, the Cuban shaking his head, indicating with his knife they keep moving.

      Not a problem. But why was McCarter trailing them? he wondered. What the hell was he doing?

      A moment later Hawkins saw the ex-SAS commando fall back in, resume stroking with a renewed burst of energy.

      IF THE MONSTER CAME for them, McCarter decided he would sacrifice himself if that meant the others could reach shore in one piece. He knew they wouldn’t allow that, not if they wanted to get up the next day and look themselves in the mirror. But if the creature started ripping him limb from limb, he could only hope primal fear and good sense would take hold of the others and send them shooting like human bullets for the beach.

      It was a false hope they would leave him to die one of the most horrible deaths he could imagine, but the mission was more important than the life of any single man on the team.

      Still the behemoth appeared more curious about the minisub, circling the craft, nudging it with its great torpedo head. He gave the blacksuit submariner a mental salute. The guy was staying put, lighting the way to shore.

      Nothing but steel balls. There was never any doubt.

      McCarter turned toward shore, figuring another thirty yards or so, arms sweeping, legs scissoring. The team had pulled ahead, with James and Hawkins looking back, peering at him, aware, most likely, of what he was thinking if it went to hell. A few more strokes and McCarter was in line, but craned his head around every few yards. It wasn’t much longer and he felt his knees scrape bottom, his head poking out of the surface. Twenty yards and they surfaced to a man. As luck would have it, they caught a decent wave, and began stroking now like Olympic swimmers as they rode it into shore.

      Rebreathers were out and tanks were stripped off. The heavy breathing of Phoenix Force slashed the calm quiet of the beach as flippers were removed and they made solid land.

      McCarter gave the smooth glass surface out to sea a search. No giant fin knifing out of the water, just a soft glow of light beneath the surface where the minisub was parked. He checked the troops, and his chuckle carried a heavy note of grim relief. “Anybody have to change his shorts first?”

      Stony Man Farm, Virginia

      BROGNOLA COULD BREATHE again, but it would take a few minutes, he knew, before the trembling left his hands. McCarter was on the satlink. “All present and accounted for. We’re changed, locked and loaded. Titan on the way back to the mother ship.”

      “Grimaldi will be wheels up in two minutes, David,” Price said. “We’ll monitor your march and alert you to any locals or army units on the prowl.”

      “Well, in that case, we’d better shake and bake. A tenklick hike will be cutting it close to sunrise.”

      “Understood,” Price said.

      “Shouldn’t be a problem moving double-time. I can still smell the adrenaline after our close encounter with Jaws. We’ll be in touch. Out.”

      Brognola lifted the stogie in a shaky hand. “Air drops. For a while, at least, only air insertions. That, folks, was way too close for this old guy’s heart.”

      They were smiling, nodding, but their relief, Brognola knew, sweet as it was, would prove short-lived.

      The worst was yet to come. Getting in might have proved the easy task.

      Century City, California

      “YOU BOYS AREN’T really telling us much more than we already know.”

      Lyons was laying the evil eye on Grogan and Caldwell as Blancanales punched in the access code that lifted the door to the underground parking garage.

      The van was rolling, going down into the subterranean labyrinth where the office of DYSAT was housed in Century City. Schwarz was monitoring the police bands with his scanner, had informed Lyons units were already on the scene of the carnage back in the alley. No firm ID on suspects. No description of their vehicle.

      The way Lyons figured it, from there on it was time to crank up the heat, put some serious fire to the tails of the so-called board of directors. Grogan had put in the call to the boss. The man in question, James Lake, ex-colonel in the Air Force air commandos, was hunkered in his office, calling the shots.

      Literally.

      “What more do you need to know?” Caldwell sputtered. “We accessed the classified files, it was something of a fluke, an accident. We found out they’re using a cutout in Thailand to ship the merchandise from there to Port Sudan. The microchips are prototypes, samples.”

      “And this Benny Goodman…”

      “Godwin,” Grogan corrected.

      “Whatever. This clown somehow lifted the samples and is sitting on them at his girlfriend’s place in Malibu.”

      “Along with the information we downloaded about the operation,” Caldwell added.

      “What’s our next move, Carl?” Blancanales asked.

      “Find a space in DYSAT’s turf and park it. Me and you are going to have a little chat with the board of directors.”

      “How come the sound of that puts me a little on edge?” Blancanales said.

      “Because these assholes are traitors. Because I can’t stand traitors. From now on, we do it our way, and if the President squawks he squawks. Hey, what’s the problem anyway? These guys tried to draw first blood. We have ‘official’ status as special agents of the Justice Department. I can walk up to the guy’s office now and start slapping the crap out of him, if I want, threaten him with about twenty-five to life and back it up.”

      Lyons watched through the windshield as Blancanales motored deeper into the garage, found DYSAT painted on a stretch of concrete, slid into a space that was isolated from other vehicles.

      “You’re going to need my magnetic swipe card to get through the door,” Grogan said.

      “Where is it?”

      “In my wallet.”

      Lyons was his usual gentle self, clawing a talon into Grogan’s shoulder, shoving him around and bending him over a little to yank the wallet out of his back pants pocket. He found the card, slipped it in the pocket of his windbreaker, dumped the wallet in the guy’s lap.

      “Then what?”

      “Well, you have to go up the steps to the lobby. You can’t take the elevator from down here.”

      “Meaning a rent-a-cop encounter.”

      Grogan grunted. “He’ll want to see your ID.”

      “No problem.”

      “He’ll call up to Lake.”

      “Again no sweat.”

      Lyons reached into the weapons bin and handed an Ingram MAC-10 to Blancanales. “Gadgets, you’re on baby-sitting detail. If we get a bunch of attitude from these clowns when we go up, you’ll be the first to know.”

      “Meaning it’s hit the fan,” Schwarz said, sporting a grim smile.

      “Let’s rock, Pol.”

      CHAPTER FIVE

      James Lake knew the