"Ask the Governor."
"That's not going to happen!" Lyons shouted. "I owe those scum from way back. As far as I'm concerned, this is do or die."
Gravity shifted as the helicopter banked. Blue sky filled one side door window. Blancanales glanced down at the concrete runway and parked Air Force jets, to the jet waiting for them. He turned back to Lyons.
"They don't call us unless it's do or die."
Still wearing sweatsuits, Lyons and Blancanales carried their bags into the forward cabin of the Air Force jet that would take them to Los Angeles. A man waited for them at the conference table. Behind him was a stack of aluminum cases in anodized black.
Wide-shouldered, thick-necked, with huge forearms and large hands, his hair clipped to a stubble, this man looked like a Marine Corps drill instructor.
But when he stood to greet them, he first pushed himself up with his arms, then used two forearm-clamp crutches to rise to his full height. His knees locked straight with metallic snaps.
"Andrzej Konzaki," he introduced himself, extending his hand, his right crutch hanging by the forearm clamp.
"Pleased to meet you." Blancanales shook hands with him.
Lyons didn't. "Who are you?"
"You mean, why am I here?" Konzaki smiled. "Is that not correct, Mr. Lyons?"
"Andrzej has clearance," Brognola called. He was struggling up the aisle with one of Gadgets' cases. Gadgets followed with a second case.
Engines shrieked. The jet taxied to take-off position on the runway. Lyons and Gadgets shook hands with Konzaki. They all took seats around the conference table, and strapped themselves in.
"Though we haven't met before," Konzaki told them, "we have worked together. You, Mr. Lyons, spoke with me only a few weeks ago, concerning some very unusual ammunition for a very difficult situation. I am Special Weapons Development, CIA. I viewed the video tapes, and I attended the autopsies of those Puerto Rican terrorists. Did you not think the results remarkable?"
"Yeah. Remarkable."
"And not one of the hostages," Konzaki continued, "suffered wounds from bullets or bullet fragments."
Konzaki eased back into his chair. He opened his attache case. "Before I present the tools for your present mission, let me continue with the briefing, courtesy of some data put together by your Mr. Brognola.
"Here are maps of Santa Catalina Island. Satellite photos. Los Angeles Police Department files on the Outlaws motorcycle gang for the last fifteen years."
The last folder Konzaki distributed to each of the members of Able Team contained a three-inch thick stack of photocopied forms and typewritten pages. Gadgets flipped through the stack he received:
"With this much attention, you'd think the LAPD would have known about the attack on Catalina."
"Don't knock the LAPD," Lyons spoke up, sensitive about his former job. "Five thousand cops for a city of almost four million people. You figure it out."
Brognola flipped through the folder, found a particular section. "Actually, the police were onto it. They have details on the theft of military weapons, the warehousing of civilian weapons and ammunition, and the assembly of all the California Outlaws in the Los Angeles area. They knew something was about to happen."
Konzaki swiveled his chair at that point and opened one of the several cases stacked behind him. He placed a scoped, bolt-action rifle on the conference table.
"This is a Mannlicher SSG in .308 NATO," he announced. "You're familiar with the Starlite scope. You'll notice I have fabricated a mount for the Starlite which will allow the use of the iron sights during the day.
"Here are a hundred 'Accelerator' rounds. With a velocity of over 4000 feet per second, the 'Accelerators' will make long-distance snap shots possible.
"Here are ten rounds like those you used in the New York tower hijacking. They will kill without creating a through-and-through wound. And, as you remember, a head shot is utterly devastating.
"Here are ten rounds with Teflon-coated steel slugs. They will punch through any vehicle. Almost any wall.
"Here are ten tracers. You might use them as incendiary rounds. I have a hundred rounds of hollow points, if you want them. However, this is not a fire fight weapon. Also, the police file reveals that these criminals have stolen considerable numbers of assault rifles chambered in .308 NATO. Rather than carry additional and perhaps unnecessary ammunition, I say capture the stuff."
He opened another case and brought out an odd-looking pistol with a short suppressor mounted on the barrel. "This is a Beretta Model 93R modified for silence. I have attached the suppressor and changed the springs to cycle sub-sonic 9mm cartridges. It fires single shots or three round bursts..."
"What's the cyclic rate?" Gadgets asked, intrigued.
"Practical rate of fire, approximately 110 rounds per minute. This lever folds down for the left hand and the left thumb slips through the extra large trigger guard. With both hands, short range burst accuracy is excellent.
"Here's a holster and gun belt. The pouches have fifteen magazines, each containing fifteen sub-sonic cartridges.
"In case you expend all that ammunition, this pouch contains the pistol's standard springs. I'll show you how to disassemble the pistol and replace the springs. That will allow the use of full velocity ammunition, though it will no longer be silent."
He opened another case. "Here are some standard weapons, with minor modifications. An Ingram in 9mm. And an Uzi. Both throated to feed hollow-points. I have also added flash hiders. Magazines and ammunition for both.
"Here are some small LAAW rockets, one for armor or barricade penetration, two with antipersonnel warheads.
"I also have this box of grenades for you, fragmentation and white phosphorous. And for Mr. Schwarz, radio-triggered detonators in several frequencies."
Lyons grinned. "All right! Christmas comes early. The odds just took a turn in our favor. But tell me..."
A buzzer interrupted him. Brognola went to the door separating the passenger area from the pilot's cabin, unlocked and opened it. A flight officer spoke quietly with him, then handed him a sheet of notes.
"This complicates it," Brognola said, returning to the group. "The Pentagon have six of their theoreticians on the island. Boffins, unarmed. Specialists in lasers, particle beams and atomic fields. You have got to bring those men out, no matter what. Highest national security priority. When we get to L.A., we'll have photos and dossiers waiting for you."
"What are they doing there?" Gadgets asked.
"It says they wanted a quiet place for intensive talks."
"Ha!" Lyons laughed bitterly. He turned to Konzaki. "What I want to know did you put all this together in an hour? Are you a magician?"
"No." Konzaki spoke with infinite sadness. "I assembled several groups of weapons, each group suitable for different locales in the world, and different circumstances. I am not a magician, nor can I foretell the future, Mr. Lyons. I simply read the newspaper. I knew it would only be a matter of time before these weapons were needed."
5
Chris Davis lay in the dark, listening to Mrs. Shepard comfort her husband. Mr. Shepard, though battered and bleeding, sometimes doubling over with pain in his gut, had been silent until he slipped into sleep. Then he moaned and cried out. His wife held his head, smoothed his hair, pulled blankets around him.
He startled awake, and stared into the darkness around him. "It's okay," his wife whispered. "We're all right, it was only a nightmare..."
"You mean what I dreamed?" he asked her. "Or what's happening? Kid," he called, and Chris jumped up, "get me a bucket or something so I don't mess up your dad's study."
Mr. Shepard had suggested to the boys that they all sleep in the one room. As the den opened to the patio, their voices or flashlights would not betray them to Outlaws patrolling the street. If the Outlaws fired into the house, then two walls and Mr. Davis' shelves of law books protected them.