Five Rings of Fire

2

Rosario "Politician" Blancanales and Hermann "Gadgets" Schwarz sprinted through the drizzle. They were headed for a black executive jet that was coming to a stop by a freight terminal at Holman Field, St. Paul. The logo on the side of the jet read: ABLE GROUP, Security Services.

The plane stopped, a door lifted and stairs were dropped to the ground. Blancanales and Schwarz boarded.

Carl Lyons, the third member of Able Team, stood just inside the entry. He greeted his teammates with rabbit punches to their shoulders.

The three justice warriors from Stony Man Farm had escaped a sacrificial slaughter in the lair of a smugglers' broker called The Dragon, tens of thousands of feet up in the Hindu Kush. It was one helluva close call. And it was a story that would stay buried, too tangled in bloodcurdling treachery to be retold.

Few words were exchanged between the men. They had fought together, nearly died together — words fell short of what they felt about one another. They convened around a small conference table as the plane taxied for runway space.

"Love that logo on this souped-up flybox," Schwarz said. "We sure didn't have trouble recognizing the right plane.''

"Where're the S.M. boys?" Blancanales asked.

"The big Stony Man guns are up to their asses in trouble. This one's our baby. We're on our own," Lyons informed them.

"Sweet shit," Blancanales said, a smile on his face. "What's the action?"

"In less than two hours," Lyons said, "we'll be up to our butts in local and international politics. But don't worry — I've become a diplomat. I can handle politics like a pro."

"What's this political crap?" Gadgets demanded. "You're about as good at politics as I am at catching lead in my teeth."

"Job still has to be done. Order came directly from the Oval Office."

Lyons produced two eight-by-ten photographs.

"We've got some shapely compensation on this trip." He handed them the pictures. "The tall Caucasian is Babette Pavlovski. She's one of the athletes Mack Bolan rescued when he destroyed the Zwilling Horde. She's a defector from Czechoslovakia. Someone tried to kill her this morning, killed a kid gymnast instead. Also got Pavlovski's two FBI bodyguards.

"The young black is Ellie Kay King, known as Kelly. She's our best bet for gold at the Olympics. Pavlovski's been coaching the team since she defected two years ago. It was King who called Stony Man Farm and told them what happened."

"They're not tough to look at," Gadgets commented.

"Wait'll you see them move," Lyons snapped.

"How the hell did an athlete have a telephone number for Stony Man?" Blancanales asked. "Someone hand out Stony Man business cards?"

Lyons grinned in spite of himself. "Pavlovski wrote a letter to Sergeant Grendal, care of the Director of Central Intelligence. Grendal was the only name she knew Mack by. In the letter she said there's a lot of pressure being placed on black American athletes to head to Communist countries after the Games. Brognola talked to her, gave her the Stony Man number, then talked to the FBI to make sure things were handled right. Pavlovski must have passed the number to King.

"Brognola's in some sort of deep shit right now, so he called me, briefed me, and here I am delivering this fucking masterful briefing to you clowns. The FBI's going to meet us at LAX and give us any more intel they may have stumbled upon."

Politician shook his head. "The FBI's officially in charge of Olympic security — they've probably got an army of Feds. And LAPD's probably got its finest out there. So why us?"

"Three reasons," Lyons said. "First, the President is afraid this is a major terrorist offensive. Second, there's a lot of political fighting going on between LAPD, the FBI and the sheriff's office over control of Olympic security — the prez wants some outsiders to coordinate things. And third, the U.S. has a lot at stake. Pavlovski is a defector. She was supposed to be protected. We don't know why her security failed, but if the KGB — that's who they figure's after her — can bump off defectors on U.S. soil, there isn't a country around that's going to take us seriously. And, while we can't stop people from leaving this free country of ours, we can stop people from pressuring them to leave.

"Ellie King will be with the FBI agent at the airport," Carl continued. "We'll get filled in on the way to UCLA. Then we'll grab Pavlovski, discover what sort of tactics the KGB's using to pressure the blacks and wrap it up in time for lunch."

"Miracles," Gadgets said, rolling his eyes heavenward.

Lyons got up and heaved two heavy wooden cases and one suitcase onto the table. He dumped out the contents of the suitcase.

"Special underwear from NASA to you," Lyons said, holding up what looked like long Johns with no sleeves and short legs. Heavy plates could be seen through the material.

"Just what we need in the heat of L.A.," Pol said, "long underwear. I'd rather get shot than sweat to death."

Lyons ignored the complaints. "Pay attention. I'm only going over this once. These are Kevlar on the outside. The Velcro-fastened pockets hold ceramic trauma plates. The inside is what NASA invented — it's full of micro tubing. The fluid is pumped by a miniature motor that'll keep going on three nine-volt alkaline batteries for twenty-four hours.

"This pouch is the fluid reservoir. You put the small chempacs in there and they'll supply either three hours of heating or cooling depending on which pack you use. It's sweltering in L.A. now, but we're going to be three very cool dudes."

The trio stripped down and donned their outer-space gear. Complaints were tossed about. "We look ridiculous... stupid..." But behind the complaints was the knowledge that the outfits could be lifesavers.

Lyons dipped into one of the cases and produced three breakaway shoulder rigs and three silenced Beretta93-Rs.

"These go on next," he said. "You'll find pockets on the sides of your vests with extra clips provided."

"You're using a 93-R?" Gadgets questioned. "You prefer a Python."

"Python's a helluva lot better than these popguns, but everything in this mission's been designed to limit any problems during crowd action. You guys also get Ingrams."

"Suppose you're packing a 40mm cannon," Pol said to Lyons.

"Damn right," he said, holding up an M-203 with an M-16 barrel and an M-79 grenade launcher in an over/under configuration. "We've got smokes, tear gas, HE and puke gas to use."

Politician, rifling through the cases, came up with some new death distributors. "Nice stuff," he said. "Damn nice stuff."

"They're custom made," Lyons said. "Take .458 Winchester Magnums. If we're forced to snipe, I doubt we could find a better piece to use. The sport shirts are to conceal this armor."

"Not a bad fit," Gadgets declared as he slipped the shirt on.

"We land in twenty minutes," Lyons announced.