Armed Resistance. Don Pendleton

“Of course, put him through,” Saroyan said.

       For the next five minutes Saroyan practically stood at attention himself, saying very little except for an occasional “yes, sir” or “of course, sir” and even one “I understand perfectly, sir.” After nearly five minutes Saroyan gently placed the receiver into the cradle, looked over the three warriors and scratched his chin. His previous hardness had melted from his body language and he finally waved Able Team into seats.

       “Sit down, boys,” Saroyan said. “It would seem that I’ve been a bit hasty.”

       “Perfectly understandable, sir,” Blancanales said, and Schwarz nodded as if in complete agreement.

       Lyons didn’t react beyond a smirk.

       Saroyan sat and rubbed at his temples, obviously feeling a headache coming on. He said, “Okay, I guess we can cut through the bullshit. You guys obviously aren’t CID and from what I just heard it would seem I no longer have any authority over your actions.” He looked out the window of his office absently and added, “But I do want to remind you that you’re still guests of the United States Army while on this post. I’d prefer you avoid any further firefights or other hostile actions while here.”

       “It’s not like we had a lot of choice,” Lyons muttered.

       “Ironman,” Blancanales cut in easily.

       Saroyan looked at the men. “You can understand why this is going to make things very difficult for me. Fortunately, it’s Sunday and that means a good number of the civilian DOA and DOD workers are off post. Most permanent party is gone, as well, since this isn’t an active training weekend.”

       “It does help that you maintain the largest Army reservist post in the country,” Schwarz agreed.

       “It means we can keep this quiet and hopefully the press won’t get wind,” Saroyan replied. “Washington has assured me they’ll do everything possible to spin this right when it goes public. They’re going to call it an accident.”

       “That might wash for a while but it won’t keep long,” Lyons said.

       “And it’ll definitely squeeze our mission objectives against the wall,” Schwarz pointed out.

       Saroyan cleared his throat. “Perhaps I could help you with that if I knew more about your actual mission here.”

       “You could start by leveling with us about Colonel Scott,” Lyons said.

       Saroyan’s expression made it apparent he had hoped to avoid that discussion, but at this point they all knew he didn’t have a choice. Someone, maybe even the President himself, had just handed the base commander his ass, and maintaining the coy routine wouldn’t be a great career move. Lyons could understand the man’s position—he didn’t give a shit, but he understood.

       “Colonel Scott isn’t on a family emergency. He’s missing and all attempts to reach him have proved unsuccessful.” Saroyan reached into the drawer of his desk, withdrew a pack of cigarettes and a lighter and fired one up. Smoking inside a government building was forbidden but being Saroyan was the MMFIC, who was going to argue?

       “How long?” Lyons asked.

       “Going on forty-eight hours,” Shubin answered.

       “You’ve reported him AWOL, I assume?” Blancanales inquired.

       Saroyan shook his head as he dragged on the cigarette.

       “You’re trying to keep it quiet.”

       “Yes, but I can’t hold out much longer,” Saroyan replied through a cloud of smoke. “It’s my discretion to consider him merely absent from appointed place of duty for up to three days. After that, I have to notify the base provost marshal and Washington that he’s AWOL due to his rank and security clearances.”

       “You should have reported his absence immediately,” Lyons said. He raised a hand to ward off any defensive posture.

       “But that’s spilled milk,” Blancanales added quickly to minimize the risk Saroyan would go on the defensive. “So you’ve leveled with us and we at least owe you that much in return, General. In short, guerrillas in Sudan friendly to U.S. interests stumbled onto a small cache of weapons in the possession of terrorists with the Lord’s Resistance Army. The serial numbers of those arms were traced to inventory held in the main armory here on this base.”

       Saroyan stopped with the cigarette midway to his lips and his eyes went wide.

       “Holy shit,” Shubin muttered.

       “Indeed,” Blancanales said with a nod.

       “So you think Colonel Scott’s disappearance is related,” Saroyan said.

       “Seems little doubt of that now,” Lyons said. “We have some others headed to Sudan now to check out this story personally, since it’s a good bet those aren’t the only U.S. armaments that might be in the country. Not even every weapon they found had been accounted for.”

       “So you’re suggesting Colonel Scott’s in on it.”

       “We’re not suggesting anything of the sort…yet. But there’s no doubt his disappearance is more than coincidence. He might be a hostage, maybe even taken by those who were behind what went down this morning.”

       “Okay, so obviously we’ve confirmed these weapons are from here at Camp Shelby,” Shubin said. “That still doesn’t explain how they managed to get them out of the country and into Sudan, never mind getting them off this base.”

       “It’s possible the LRA has a network inside the country,” Lyons said.

       “And that they’ve been here for a while, giving them the time and opportunity to build resources,” Schwarz added.

       “You’re suggesting a conspiracy?” Saroyan asked.

       “Why’s that so hard to believe?” Lyons fired back. “If memory serves, it wasn’t that long ago Nadil Hasan opened up with a pistol at the largest military installation in the free world, an act ultimately tied to terrorist conspirators. And he was an American citizen. How implausible is it that foreigners could penetrate this country and set up an arms-smuggling pipeline?”

       The room fell silent for a time.

       “Would it help if I gave you the address of Colonel Scott’s off-post housing?” Saroyan eventually said.

       “It’s a start,” Blancanales said. “You never know what we might find.”

       “And that’s exactly what worries me,” Saroyan replied.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      Kampala, Uganda

      It was late afternoon when traffic control cleared Jack Grimaldi to land at the airport and directed him to a private hangar—at least that’s what Ugandan air traffic officials called it. A half dozen uniformed security officers with SMGs slung at their sides waited. They wore brown khaki uniforms with utility caps but the weapons made them look more like military troops than police.

       As Grimaldi taxied the Stony Man Gulfstream C21 to a halt, McCarter stepped to the main door and disengaged the locks. The engines had barely wound down when the Phoenix Force leader pushed the door out, letting it fall into debarking position. He then stepped aside and gestured for Hawkins to go first since it was Hawkins who could most convincingly act like a Texas oil baron.

       As soon as Hawkins’s feet hit the tarmac, a man wearing black epaulettes with a circle and diamond on them—the rank insignia for an inspector—stepped forward smartly and extended his hand.

       “Good day, sir.” The man had very dark skin and an impenetrable expression. “I am Captain Bukenya of the Ugandan Police Force. Please note until I have cleared you that you are not free to leave this area, and that your persons and aircraft are subject to inspection now or