Deadly Weakness (Gray Spear Society) (12 page)

"That's exactly what I have. Camp Zonta."

"Good. I have to go." Xavier put his phone away and hurried back to the tournament.

Chapter Seven

"Norbert, look." Bethany pointed to one of the surveillance feeds on her monitors.

Norbert turned his attention to an image of Xavier. The commander of Houston was making a private phone call behind a cabin. The camera was far away and the angle was poor, but Xavier's impressive mustache was instantly recognizable.

"So?" Norbert said. "I'm sure he has important business back home that requires his attention."

"It's not his regular phone," Bethany said.

He moved closer and saw that she was right. The phone Xavier held was much slimmer than a standard Society phone.

"Maybe he's working on a mission," Norbert said. "That phone could be part of a cover story."

"Aaron told us to monitor all communication. I want to know who he's talking to."

"You can do that?"

"Sure," Leanna said. "We can tap the access logs from the surrounding cell towers. Then we just have to triangulate the position and match it up with..."

He threw up his hands. "Just do it."

Both twins started typing at once. He was always amazed at how they worked perfectly together without needing to tell each other what to do.

Meanwhile, Xavier put away his phone and walked off. The short mysterious call had ended.

After a couple of minutes, Bethany said, "He called Race Hanley."

"And who is that?" Norbert said.

"An FBI agent," Leanna said.

"That's interesting, but there are good reasons why Xavier might talk to the FBI. Aaron has several contacts in the FBI office in Chicago. We rely on them for information. Cultivating contacts is a big part of a commander's job."

"You don't want to tell Aaron?" Bethany said.

Norbert shook his head. "He's busy watching the tournament. I won't annoy him with something as trivial as a simple phone call. If Xavier threatened somebody or broke into a room or had a secret meeting, I'd certainly report it."

Bethany still looked concerned.

He leaned down and kissed both girls on the forehead. "Why don't I go out and buy some lunch for us. Do either of you want anything special? Or should I just get the usual."

"The usual," both twins said at once.

Why do I even ask?
Norbert thought. "I'll be back in an hour. If I'm late, call me. If I don't answer, call Aaron. And don't forget we have an emergency rappel system on the roof. Use it if you need to escape in a hurry. Just tighten the straps and jump."

He walked quickly towards the elevator.

* * *

Special Agent Race Hanley, chief of the FBI Special Missions Unit, rubbed his sore knee. The cold dry weather was causing his old war wound to flare up. Every time he felt that particular pain, he was reminded of how his military career had ended in such an ugly and premature way.

He was sitting in his hotel room. The room also served as his field office, but it was a poor one. A small desk didn't have enough space for the paperwork that always followed him around. A sharp edge made it uncomfortable for him to use his laptop. The queen sized bed reminded him of the wife that was so far away. He wished she were here now.

He looked at the framed picture of Peggy on his desk. Her silky red hair was her nicest feature. Her face wasn't especially pretty, but it was always smiling. People told her she had a great personality.

Race and Peggy had been high school sweethearts and had married immediately after graduation. Two weeks later, he had shipped off with the Navy.

They were still married after fifteen years, a fact that sometimes surprised him. During his military service, they had seen each other only during occasional shore leaves. Even though he was a civilian now, they still didn't spend enough time together. The FBI often sent Hanley off on long assignments far from home. They still planned to have children one day, when he finally settled down.

He stood up and walked. The knee was really bothering him, but he forced himself to walk normally. It looked weak when he limped like a cripple.

His bedroom was part of a large suite in the hotel. He entered a central room where another man was seated on a couch.

He was Colonel Rosecrans of the U.S. Army. He was responsible for the military component of the Special Missions Unit. The number of men directly under his command varied depending on need and availability, but he could call upon a hundred Army Rangers and other special forces operators in a pinch. Rosecrans had a thin face and leathery skin. Coarse gray hair made him look ancient, but he was only fifty.

"My contact finally called," Hanley said.

"And?" Rosecrans said.

Hanley took a pen from a coffee table. Satellite photos of Camp Zonta were scattered across the table. He circled the large building in the center of one photo and wrote "1915 hours" in the circle.

"The enemy will be there at that time," Hanley said. "All of them in one place."

Rosecrans picked up the photo and studied it.

"My contact also strongly recommends we lead with an airstrike."

The colonel stared at him.

"I'm not kidding," Hanley said.

"I'm sure your contact means well, but we can't do an airstrike. It's not feasible."

"We bomb terrorists in foreign countries. Why can't we bomb terrorists here?"

Rosecrans took a deep breath. "In theory, and I want to emphasize the word theory, it's the right approach. That area has very few civilians, so there is almost no risk of unintended casualties. The target is a plain wooden structure. A single, five hundred pound bomb would demolish it and kill everybody inside. There are no air defenses to worry about. The plane doesn't even have to be stealthy. An air strike would dramatically reduce the danger to our men while incurring relatively little risk. In theory."

"I'm glad you agree," Hanley said.

"But there are serious practical concerns. We're talking about Wisconsin, not Afghanistan. An airstrike against a domestic target would need approval from the highest levels, maybe even the White House. You won't get that in—" Rosecrans checked his watch. "—eight hours."

The colonel was right. At least Hanley could tell Xavier he had tried.

"But I have an alternative."

Hanley perked up.

"A well executed mortar attack is almost as effective as an airstrike," Rosecrans said. "You can find mortars in any military depot. Many of my men have the necessary training. A battery of mortars will reduce the target to kindling in less than a minute. Most importantly, they don't require special approval. They're considered an ordinary infantry weapon."

"That's a brilliant idea." Hanley smiled. "We'll need a spotter though."

"We'll put a man in a helicopter."

"OK." Hanley nodded. "That's the first part of the plan. Now let's talk about the second part. Our men will have to enter the camp to arrest any survivors. I think we should just drive right in using the road. We'll show up after the barrage ends and hit the enemy hard."

Rosecrans was silent for a moment. Hanley studied the photos on the table.

There was only one road leading to Camp Zonta. It curved past a farm, wriggled through a patch of thick forest, and terminated at the central building. To reach the camp any other way would require hiking through woods laden with booby traps. The road passed over a small hill, which provided natural cover.

To Hanley, the most obvious strategy was hiding his men behind the hill during the mortar barrage. Then he would send them forward all at once. The distance between the hill and the central building was about 400 meters. It would take less than a minute by car.

"It's a good idea," Rosecrans said, "but the enemy could have the road barricaded. We'll need an armored vehicle to bust through."

"A tank?"

"A real tank may not be necessary, but something big and tough."

"Very well," Hanley said. "It sounds like we have several tasks to accomplish. The entire Unit has to go to Camp Zonta and get into attack formation. We need mortars, and we need an armored assault vehicle. All in less than eight hours. Can we do it?"

Rosecrans nodded. "Easily."

"Let's go." Hanley stood up.

* * *

Marina looked over at Sampson and Torngasoak. Both men were walking around and apparently healed, but neither appeared happy. Even Sampson, who had won the fight, stared at the floor with a thoughtful expression. If Smythe and Odelia hadn't intervened with their miraculous powers, both combatants would've died.

Ethel walked into the hall where the tournament was taking place. Everybody else rushed to get into their original position, except for Torngasoak. He stayed in the back with the staff.

"Jennifer, of Oklahoma City," Ethel called. "Eduardo, of Denver."

A woman and a man walked into the square. Jennifer had the same light build as Marina, but her hair was a rich brown instead of Marina's red. When Jennifer opened her mouth, she revealed a tongue that was completely black. The veins in her tanned skin were also strangely dark.

Eduardo was a big Hispanic man. He was shaved bald, and his light brown skin shined under the lights. He cracked his knuckles in a menacing manner.

"Jennifer," Ethel said, "remember the rules. No suffocation."

"Yes, ma'am," Jennifer said.

The fighters took their positions.

"Begin," Ethel said.

They adopted defensive stances and slowly closed. They carefully watched each other's movements.

Suddenly, Jennifer's stomach clenched. Black liquid shot from her mouth in a continuous stream towards Eduardo's head. It looked like she was violently regurgitating. He ducked out of the way, and the goop struck his arm instead. It became a thick coating that gleamed like hot tar. He tried to rub it off and almost got his other hand stuck on the gluey material.

He looked at her again with a surprised expression. Her stomach muscles were flexing visibly. Marina guessed she was preparing for another shot.

Eduardo charged forward. Jennifer nimbly dodged aside and vomited onto his face. His eyes were completely covered in black goo.

He groped around blindly. She tried to kick his knee, but he seemed to sense her coming and shifted out of the way. She followed up with a spinning kick to his chest. The hard impact made him wheeze. He reached for her leg, but she jumped back before he could get a grip.

Go for the knee again,
Marina thought.

Eduardo stopped moving and held his arms out. Clearly, he was listening very hard for his opponent. Jennifer circled him silently.

She spewed more black liquid onto his feet. He tried to step back, but his feet were stuck to the floor. She launched herself into a flying kick aimed at his back. Somehow, he heard her approach and lashed out with his elbow. Their bodies tangled together. He landed several brutal blows before she managed to scramble away.

She got to her feet unsteadily. Her elbow had a bloody compound fracture.

For a moment she stood and contemplated her options. Eduardo's feet were still glued to the floor and he was still blind.

Jennifer dove between his legs and struck him in the groin with her heel. He made a squeaking noise. She kicked out with her feet and broke both his knees at once. He started to fall towards her, and she rolled out of the way.

He landed on his face. His knees were bent at right angles the wrong way. It was an ugly sight.

"Oklahoma City wins!" Ethel declared.

Smythe and Odelia rushed forward.

It turned out whole milk was the best way to dissolve Jennifer's adhesive tar. Poor Eduardo had to wait in agony while somebody fetched milk from the kitchen. Meanwhile, the medical team attended to Jennifer's injuries.

Finally, the mess was mopped up and the combatants were healed. Eduardo went to the back of the room to join the other losers. Jennifer returned to her place in line with the remaining combatants.

"John, of Atlanta," Ethel called. "Rodrigo, of Guadalajara."

Two men entered the square. Marina had met John during dinner last night, and she recognized his strikingly handsome face. His build was lighter than most of the other men in the tournament, but he was still very strong. He had a thin mustache and beard, which were carefully groomed.

Rodrigo also had a face that could turn a girl's head, but his physique was far too bulky for Marina's taste. His arms were ridiculously large. Coffee colored skin and black hair gave him an exotic air.

As far as Marina knew, neither man had a gift. This would be a straight fight between normal humans, a novelty in this tournament. She was looking forward to watching.

"Begin," Ethel said.

The men squared up like boxers with their fists held forward. They circled each other, moving sideways.

"No heavy blows to the head," Ethel said. "The brain can't be healed."