Five Rings of Fire at-11 Read online

  Five Rings of Fire

  ( Able Team - 11 )

  Dick Stivers

  A tragedy perpetrated by heartless savages bloodies the training gym of America’s leading female athletes.

  The horror continues as a busload of Zambian athletes is kidnapped in a blood-splashed encounter at Los Angeles airport. Able Team checks out dead goons at the scene and recognizes them as professionals. They smell KGB.

  The President grants Carl Lyons — Able Team’s “Mr. Ironman” — emergency command of the armed forces. The erupting war pits Lyons and his partners against unparalleled savagery — and zaps him right up against his old employer, the LAPD.

  Able Team deserves the gold for their killing skills against impossible odds!

  Dick Stivers

  Five Rings of Fire

  1

  Tracy Shaw, a four-foot slip of a girl, stood erect on the balance beam. Chalk, a dusty reminder of an earlier workout on the bars, covered parts of her sky-blue body suit. The suit hugged her sinewy frame with the familiarity of a longtime friend. She stood with poise, her back slightly arched, in a sensual meeting of body and athletics.

  She had blocked from her mind every dull inch of her surroundings — the women’s gymnasium at the University of California at Los Angeles. Concentration gripped her youthful face. Over and over her mind repeated instructions that had been drilled into her head by her coach.

  Over and over the eleven-year-old thought of her goal, the goal of every amateur athlete-Olympic gold. The Games were only five days away.

  She was tired. A long day of workouts had zapped the energy she usually possessed. The diminutive gymnast turned her mind from the tired aching in her muscles. She concentrated.

  Slowly, treading with the grace born of practice, she walked backward on the beam. Her face remained a mask of concentration, her head tilted slightly skyward. Suddenly, like a cat, the sinewy girl exploded into action.

  Blasting off the beam, she arched her spine into a perfect backflip. She was halfway through it when her skull exploded, spewing shards of bone and mutilated brain, the pretty face collapsing into ruin.

  And she struck the beam, a slithering, lifeless thing, devoid of grace. For half a heartbeat she was balanced there, then her rag-doll form surrendered to the draw of gravity and collapsed into a viscous, spreading pool of blood.

  The shot had not uttered a sound. It had carried out its duty with deadly silence.

  Babette Pavlovski, a Czechoslovakian defector and coach of the U.S. women’s gymnastic team, gagged at the sight of the young girl being shot. Pavlovski and America’s top hope for a gold medal, Ellie Kay King, had been spotting for the girl in the otherwise empty gym. King, nicknamed Kelly, threw up.

  Just inside the gymnasium’s main doors, two FBI guards — stationed to protect the defector — lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling. Bullet holes had left punctures in their faces.

  Ten feet from the doors stood two gunmen. They wore ragged jeans and UCLA sweatshirts to blend in with the fashion at the school’s main campus. Each carried a gym bag over his shoulder — a bag for carrying the tools of death, handguns with large cylinders planted on the ends of the barrels. Both handguns were pointed squarely at the face of Babette, the target for the first misplaced shot.

  In the time it took Tracy Shaw to drop in a heap, Babette Pavlovski reacted. Shots rang out. The coach launched her long body under the beam, bowling Kelly over. The shots missed their mark by inches. Kelly and the coach rolled together, taking refuge behind a wooden vaulting horse.

  Babette spoke rapidly to her star black gymnast.

  “They’re after me, but they’ll kill every witness they find. I’ll make them follow me away from here. Phone this number.” She handed Kelly a piece of paper. “Tell whoever answers exactly what happened… and tell them to get some help for Tracy. I… I think it’s too late.”

  Babette sprang into a sprint, zigzagging toward another exit. Small, nearly silent coughs of gunfire followed her moves. None connected.

  When she reached the junction of the corridor, she paused long enough to ensure that her pursuers saw her. As she turned the corner, a bullet chipped the wall just inches behind her.

  Meanwhile Kelly made her way back to Tracy. Kelly was in shock. She took one look at her teammate and gagged again. She knew the young gymnast was dead. She dashed to the director’s office to use the phone.

  Brenda Gillium and JoJo Tate, two young gymnasts who had witnessed the carnage from a dressing-room window that faced the gymnasium, followed Kelly into the director’s office.

  “There’s one outside,” Brenda hissed to Kelly. “We saw him. There’s one outside.”

  “Sleepy” Sam Spanier stood nervously outside the gymnasium door. His hand sweated streams as he grasped the silenced Makarov inside his gym bag.

  Sleepy was not new to the exterminating game. But this time around he was unsure of his client and his information. The Riding Devils had been doing muscle work, plus the occasional “removal” for the Mafia since the Devils had lost most of its force about a year earlier. The mob was okay to work for, but this new client…

  The new guy said he was German, but that was bullshit. Sleepy’s old lady was German and she didn’t talk like the client.

  The door to the gymnasium swung open. Sleepy checked to make certain the hall was still clear. He saw a couple of kids but they were heading the opposite way.

  He turned his head away for an instant and when he turned it back he saw one of the kids running at him faster than he thought a little girl could run. He started to pull his weapon from the bag.

  Before he could get the gun free, Brenda Gillium was airborne, her body curled in a crouch. Sleepy watched in helpless horror as the young cannonball hurtled at his head.

  At the last possible second, the girl’s legs shot out and smashed him in the face. The back of his head hit the wall behind him. He felt bone crush. Blood sprayed. He felt his life leave his body.

  Never again would he feel anything else.

  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 th
is 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.

  3

  Lyons, Schwarz and Blancanales stretched as they made their way off the jet at LAX. Bright sunshine greeted their eyes as they stepped down the ladder. A man and a woman stood waiting for them beside a station wagon.

  “Nice,” Lyons crooned, looking at the female half of the duo.

  “Lacks meat,” Gadgets said, not bothering to suppress a monster yawn. “I like my women with a little something you can hold on to.”

  The man stood surveying Able Team. He was a Caucasian with a slightly rounded face and a fit body wrapped in a lightweight gray suit. He looked like an accountant. He was a field agent. His short-fingered blunt hand reached out as Able Team came near.

  “Identification please.”

  “Want a look at a mole on my ass?” Lyons asked.

  The agent fell short of being amused. “ID please.”

  Lyons pulled a wallet from his hip pocket and produced a wrinkled envelope, which he handed to the agent. The man in gray extracted a single page, then read it.

  “Okay,” the agent said, obviously impressed with the President’s signature anchoring the page. “What’s next, sir?”

  “First,” Lyons informed him. “Cut the ‘sir’ crap. Call me Carl, or Lyons.”

  “Sheldon Archer, L.A. Bureau Chief,” the agent said.

  “My partners, Gadgets and Politician,” Lyons said, introducing Schwarz and Blancanales.

  Archer turned to the black woman standing behind him and introduced her. “This is Miss King.”

  Kelly said hello to the man, then informed them that she was at the airport to meet another plane. “It’s been in for ten minutes. I want to talk to one of the passengers — a man I met at an international meet in Montreal.” Her voice was heavy. She was still shaken over the loss of her teammate.

  “Let’s go,” Lyons said as the men of Able Team tossed their wooden cases and suitcases into the back of the wagon and then climbed in. Archer drove them to the upper-level roadway and to the west end of the complex where the new international terminal was located.

  “Look at all the reporters,” Pol said as they approached an old school bus that was being loaded with young black athletes. “Whenever athletes arrive in this country the news hounds are there.”

  “The athletes are already boarding the bus,” Kelly said. “Let me out.”

  Archer pulled up in front of the bus and King scrambled out. The four men followed her.

  A tall blond man in a suit confronted Archer.

  “You can’t park here,” he barked. “Move that heap.”

  A television reporter, sensing some drama in this small confrontation, zeroed
in on the blond man, jerking her cameraman along.

  “That’s Petra Dix,” Politician said. “She does the night news on one of the networks.”

  Archer moved in front of the station wagon to meet the shouting man. Dix closed in on the controversy.

  In a breath, the members of Able Team sensed something was wrong. The big blond man moved too smoothly. The scene was all wrong.

  They scanned the area. American guides outnumbered athletes. The guides were all burly white males, with muscles attached to muscles. Three of the heavies held members of the press away from the athletes while others corralled the Africans onto the bus.

  Ellie King sized up the situation. She ran around in back of the bus, avoided two guides and slipped onto the vehicle with the other blacks.

  One of the guides tried to restore order.

  “People, the Zambian delegation is late for a special reception we’ve set up for them. There will be a press conference at the Olympic Village on UCLA’s campus tomorrow at 10 A.M. I promise you the biggest story of the Olympics at that time.”

  “Why are you speaking for the Zambians?” an indignant reporter shouted. “Let them say a few words.”

  The burly guides began to bulldoze the press away from the athletes.

  “Special press conference, my ass,” Gadgets said. “Something stinks.”

  “What are those bastards doing?” Lyons exclaimed. He pointed at three men in gray suits who were roughing up Sheldon Archer. The men had found Archer’s credentials. The large blond leader was shouting. Handguns appeared everywhere. Petra Dix, showing incredibly bad timing, stuck her microphone in the face of the head gunman.

  “Archer and Dix are boxed in,” Lyons said. “Move.”

  Blancanales straight-armed Dix’s cameraman to the ground to get the flunky out of the way.

  Able Team attacked.

  Sheldon Archer held his own. He grabbed the hand of the top gunman. He forced the hand to give up the gun.

  Gadgets took a long flying tackle, knocking Petra Dix to the pavement. He rolled with her, shielding her body with his.