Buch lesen: «Primary Directive»
THE NUCLEAR STAKES GOT HIGHER
“So what you’re saying is that if al Qaeda manages to get personnel inside of this place…” Brognola’s voice trailed off.
“Yes, we’re all thinking the same thing. And it explains why Bari’s tactical planning called for the smuggling of so many terrorist operatives into the country.”
“It’s unthinkable,” Brognola said. “A place like that could be a terrorist’s playground if they know where to look.”
“And they do,” Price said. “That’s why they were monitoring all the sites, particularly the I-25 corridor. They weren’t interested in attacking those shipments. They wanted to know when would be the busiest times, when the eyes of most personnel would be focused elsewhere.”
“All right,” the big Fed stated. “Let’s get hopping on this. Let’s get both teams on the horn immediately and apprise them of the situation.”
“Right,” Kurtzman replied, reaching for a phone that connected directly to their secure satellite uplink.
“And when you’re done,” Brognola continued, “get me the President.”
Primary Directive
Don Pendleton
Stony Man® AMERICA’S ULTRA-COVERT INTELLIGENCE AGENCY
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Jon Guenther for his contribution to this work.
PRIMARY DIRECTIVE
For all U.S. troops fighting abroad—
stay hard and live large!
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
In the haze of approaching dawn, the Mark IV river patrol boat knifed slowly through the calm waters of Lake Gatun.
Lieutenant Manuel Horst stood on the observation post above the cockpit and scanned the lakeside with his binoculars. The night shift had always been his favorite since enlisting in the Panama Special Boat Unit—much better than monitoring the hustle and bustle of day traffic through the canal. The regular pattern of buildings and twinkling lights of the coastal town of Gamboa came into view and Horst stopped on them a moment before lowering the binoculars.
“Slow to one-third, Specialist,” he called down to the cockpit.
The pilot acknowledged the order and immediately the boat engine rumbled down from twenty to fourteen knots.
A flash of sunlight on metal caught the lieutenant’s eye. He squinted in that direction, but didn’t see any movement or ships, then remembered the binoculars and brought them to his eyes. He scanned slowly across the shoreline off Gamboa and spotted a periscope.
Horst descended to the main deck once they were under way and rallied his men. He ordered his best gunner to man the .50-cals and the radioman to contact headquarters with a request for reinforcements. A submarine operating in the Panama Canal Zone without permission was a serious offense against U.S.-Panama treaty stipulations, not to mention a violation of at least a half dozen right-of-way regulations.
As the PBR drew nearer and the sun broke on the horizon Horst could see the sub had surfaced. It looked rather tiny, maybe twice the length of their own boat, and it didn’t have lines of any particular grade Horst recognized. That ruled out the submarine as U.S. surplus given to Panama or a military prototype. Horst’s eyes stopped when he spotted a wicked-looking weapon of an unfamiliar make on the forward prow. Before Horst could point it out to his crew, however, a hatch at the base of the mount opened and a man in dark fatigues emerged. The guy took up position behind the large weapon and swung it in their direction.
Horst shouted to his machine gunner, but the warning came too late. A cloud of smoke and flame belched from the muzzle of the massive weapon as the report cracked through the air. One of the .50-cals blew apart a moment later and sent large, razor-sharp shards of metal whistling in all directions. The gunner screamed as several lodged in his body. One piece of shrapnel cut through a neck artery and blood spurted from the gaping wound left in its wake.
Horst ducked in reflex action and shouted at the pilot to turn the boat starboard, then ordered another crew member to man the 20 mm chain gun. He then rushed forward to help the wounded gunner. As he reached his man, Horst heard the antimaterial weapon boom again followed by the sickly sound of shattered glass. He didn’t bother turning to make a damage assessment; he already knew they’d hit the cockpit. Horst managed to get a bulky dressing from the sideboard-mounted med kit pressed against the gunner’s wound before the sudden spin of the boat knocked him off balance.
Horst looked at his gunner. The young man’s eyes stared wildly back at him but the guy still seemed to have enough sense to keep the bandage pressed against his throat. The light in the man’s eyes dimmed quickly, though, and Horst figured he had maybe a couple of minutes before the blood loss rendered him unconscious. Horst jumped to his feet and rushed to the cockpit. As he reached the body of the pilot slumped over the wheel—the boat had now taken on a listing spin as the pilot had been turning it when struck by the antimaterial rifle—Horst heard the 20 mm chain gun rattle into action. That would keep that bastard’s head down long enough for his team to regroup and mount a counteroffensive, although Horst wondered how much they could do with two men down and one of their primary weapons neutralized.
Horst felt the pilot’s neck for a pulse but didn’t find any. He pulled the body off the seat and laid it gently on the deck, then directed his voice to the radioman belowdecks. “Send position priority! We’re under heavy small-arms attack by submarine of unknown origin! Request reinforcements now! ”
Horst then turned his attention out the view port as he swung the wheel to get the boat under control. He powered into a heading that put the port stern moving away from the sub at a forty-five-degree angle. That would give Vega on the chain gun a decent field of fire while minimizing exposure of the PBR to more barrages from the antimaterial gun. Horst never heard the report of the weapon that fired it, but there was little doubt of the consequences when a 104 mm shell landed smack-dab in the center of the prow just rear of the .50-cal turret. Wilson, the gunner, never had a chance as the explosion ripped his limbs from his body. The skin-searing heat—Horst could feel it even through what remained of the cockpit windshield—traveled belowdecks far and fast enough to turn the vulcanized rubber soles of Horst’s boots mushy. Horst heard the agonized screams of Bolidez as the flames reached the radioman.
As Horst turned the wheel hard astern so the boat headed back toward the submarine before the fire reached the steerage equipment, he heard the chain gun stop, knew that Vega no longer had a decent firing position. A moment later the man burst into the cockpit.
“What the hell are you doing, Manuel?” he demanded.
Horst had known Vega since childhood. They were well past military formalities. “If we’re going to die today, Maldo, then we’re going to take a few of these bastards!”
The familiar crack of the material rifle made Horst clench his teeth. Vega had already left the cockpit and a moment later he could hear his friend open up with their squad weapon, an Enfield SA-80. The antimaterial shell hit somewhere beyond the boat and the delay of the gunner having to reload had bought Horst the time he sought. There was no way they could stop the boat from ramming them now.
Through the cracked glass Horst could make out more shadowy figures spreading out across the submarine deck. His heart beat fast and heavy in his chest as the wink of muzzle-flashes and cap-gun-like reports began to sound from the myriad of automatic weapons being fired. A cold lump formed in his throat when the sounds of the SA-80 ceased and a moment later he watched the body of one of his best friends sail past and hit the deck with a dull thud. Horst could barely see through the tears that welled in his eyes, but he wasn’t about to give up.
No way will my men have died in vain, he thought.
Horst never heard the shot that killed him—never really felt more than a brief pain and the flash of light from the 104 mm shell—and he never knew he’d brought his boat to within twenty meters of the submarine before it exploded.
And he would never know of the legend he would create this day.
CHAPTER ONE
“Rodman Command, Rodman Command! This is a priority encoding from Gatun Unit One! Position is offshore Gamboa. Repeat, offshore Gamboa! Unidentified submarine in shallows! Unit One is under fire. Repeat, Unit One is under fire! Request assist! Request assi—”
Hal Brognola, director of the Sensitive Operations Group based at Stony Man Farm and one of the most powerful men in the Justice Department, looked at Aaron Kurtzman. “That’s enough, Aaron.”
A respectful, weighty silence followed the recording of the last transmission sent from Gatun Unit One of the PSBU. The men of Phoenix Force sat around the conference table in the War Room and traded somber looks.
“There were five men on that boat,” Brognola finally said. “No survivors.”
“Any sign of the sub?” asked David McCarter, Phoenix Force leader.
Brognola shook his head. “The sub was gone by the time reinforcements arrived. Panamanian officials contacted nearby Coast Guard cutters and eventually the word got out to put the U.S. Navy on alert, but presumably our mysterious ship submerged and slipped through the sonar nets.”
“This isn’t the first time the Panamanian government has reported this kind of activity,” Barbara Price said. The mission controller’s hair cascaded along her nape like a blond waterfall, the ends barely brushing her shoulders. Her inquisitive blue eyes studied each Phoenix Force warrior in turn. “But this is the first time there’s been hostilities of this level. In the past, Panama has blamed drug-runners as the primary culprits.”
“And that’s the story they’ve given the press for now,” Brognola added. “That should buy you enough time to get down there and check this out more thoroughly.”
“Any newshound worth his or her weight isn’t going to buy that, guys,” Rafael Encizo remarked. “A lot of the frequencies used by the PBSU are unscrambled and monitored 24/7.”
“Agreed,” McCarter said. “It won’t take them long to figure out what’s up. They might know the truth before we do.”
Price sighed. “Either way, we’ve been asked by the Panamanian government to get involved on this one. The First Vice President contacted the White House with the request personally.”
“No surprise,” Calvin James said. The lanky, black warrior—leaning on the back legs of his chair—pulled a toothpick from his mouth and jabbed it at his chest for emphasis. “I did a tour in Panama when I was in the Navy. I doubt they’re equipped with the resources to combat a menace like this. It sounds like whoever did this wiped out that patrol boat unit like it was nothing.”
“We believe we have a possible explanation for that,” Price said.
She looked at the man next to her, his wrestlerlike body confined to a wheelchair. Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman headed the Stony Man cybernetics team. He wasn’t a mere whiz kid with computers. Kurtzman served as chief architect and systems administrator of one of the largest, most complex, state-of-the-art computer networks in the world. Nearly every scrap of processed information went through the Stony Man databases where powerful computers mined, compiled and sorted the data into neat little bytes.
Kurtzman took his cue. “The initial investigation of the site uncovered some interesting clues. My team’s still working on what this all means, but maybe the intelligence will help.”
The computer wizard tapped a key on the keyboard in front of him and the photo of a large weapon appeared on the projection screen at one end of the room.
“Gentlemen, I introduce you to the Steyr IWS-2000. In the event you’re not familiar, this is a 15.2 mm antitank rifle and, as you can see, it has a bullpup design.” He tapped a key and they got a different view of the weapon. “According to Cowboy, this weapon fires a distinct projectile shaped much like a finned dart, one of which was retrieved during salvage and recovery ops. Each shell fired weighs approximately 308 grains and exits at a muzzle velocity of almost 1500 meters per second.”
T. J. Hawkins produced a long whistle. In his soft, Southern drawl he said, “Holy guacamole. That is one bad dude.”
“It’s also a pretty interesting weapon to mount to a minisub,” Brognola added. “This is why we bring it to your attention. As you know, Steyr-Mannlicher is an Austrian company, and this particular make has never been exported for purchase.”
“So whoever acquired it probably did so in-country,” McCarter concluded.
Gary Manning cleared his throat and all eyes turned toward him.
“Al Qaeda still has pretty strong ties in that area,” Manning reminded the team. “If this was a terrorist operation and they were using those kinds of weapons, then I’d say they’re our most likely candidate.”
McCarter nodded. “That’s a bloody good assessment, mate.”
“The Panamanian government’s very concerned about the timing of this whole thing,” Brognola said. “Especially in light of the recent handoff of all canal operations to local oversight.”
“Didn’t they also pass some recent legislation to fund reconstruction and upgrade efforts?” Encizo asked.
Price nodded. “Yes, and some of those operations are already under way, although not in this particular area. Less than ten percent of the structures in Gamboa are even occupied, and there’s only one resort to service the tourist population.”
“Not to mention this is the off-season,” Brognola added.
“Gamboa thrived when it acted as a township under the old Panama Canal Zone,” Price continued, “but with the return of its resources to Panama officials, the departure of U.S. citizens and servicemen living there turned the place into a virtual ghost town.”
“I don’t get it,” James said. “If this wasn’t about drugs and these were actual terrorists, al Qaeda or otherwise, what the hell was the point? They didn’t blow anything up other than one small patrol boat, and they obviously didn’t stick around very long. What gives?”
“I think that’s what we’re going down there to find out,” McCarter replied.
“Exactly,” Price said. “Your local contact will be a Panamanian official from the First VP’s office. A CIA operative from the embassy in Panama City will also meet you in Gamboa.”
“Why’s the Company involved?” James asked suspiciously.
“They’re not,” Brognola replied. “This guy’s merely on an intelligence-gathering mission for the official reports. He’s been advised of your arrival. Both of these men have been told to give you their full cooperation, so it’s your show. All the way.”
“Dandy,” McCarter said with a grin. “Just the way I like it.”
CHAPTER TWO
U.S.-Mexican Border
Rosario “The Politician” Blancanales had known better days. Huge droplets of sweat rolled off his head and slid slowly down his neck and along his spine like globules of oil. His body ached, his shirt was soaked at waist and armpits and he had hunger pangs such as he’d never before experienced. The temperature had already reached nearly one hundred degrees with about ninety percent humidity, and it wasn’t even noon yet. He’d consumed nearly an entire canteen of water and a couple of salt tablets and still his tongue felt like 20-grade sandpaper. Blancanales removed his utility cap, wiped at the sweat on his forehead and behind his ears with an OD green hanky and then replaced his cover.
Squinting in the bright sun, the Able Team warrior studied the profile of the muscular man who stood next to him talking on a cell phone. The man’s frosty blue eyes stared with moderate interest at the work in progress in front of them. Some might have called this man a work in progress, but Blancanales knew better. Time and the brutal reality of urban combat had hardened and shaped this guy into the most rock-steady man it had ever been Blancanales’s pleasure to know.
“Yeah, I understand. Out, here,” Carl “Ironman” Lyons said, and then disconnected the call.
“Hal?” Blancanales inquired.
Lyons nodded. “Yeah. Says they just sent Phoenix down to Panama. Some kind of major shit hit the fan down there. Naturally, they took Jack, and Charlie’s somewhere with Mack.”
“So no dedicated wings for the ride home.”
“Nope,” Lyons said. “Says once we’re finished to give them a call and they’ll get us on the first MAC flight out of Fort Bliss.”
“Why so grumpy, Carl?” Blancanales asked. “Lighten up some and put on a happy face.”
“This is my happy face,” Lyons said with a sideways glance at his friend. He nodded toward another man working with the group near a ten-foot-high wall fifty yards from their position and added, “When’s Gadgets going to be finished with these eggheads already?”
Hermann Schwarz, whose wizardry and expertise in electronic surveillance and countersurveillance had earned him the “Gadgets” moniker, stopped to look at his two friends as if he had somehow read Lyons’s mind. He held up one hand in the “gimme five more minutes” sign and Lyons returned the gesture with a nod, although the look on the Able Team leader’s face said he was none too happy about having to continue waiting.
Lyons hadn’t been keen on taking the assignment to start with, Blancanales knew, but when in the service of an organization like Stony Man they didn’t get to pick and choose their assignments. And to some degree, each of them possessed some significant expertise in this particular endeavor. Lyons, of course, had a background as an LAPD cop dealing with illegal immigrants from Mexico on practically a daily basis and Blancanales, a man raised in East L.A., knew just about everything there was to know about border crossings. Finally, Schwarz had the greatest impact on this mission because of his significant expertise in electronic surveillance measures.
The End Zone Project was the baby of numerous computer scientists at Sandia Laboratories in New Mexico. Designed around two integral technologies—Forward Area Alerting Radar and Low-Altitude Navigation and Targeting for Night—End Zone had the ability to not only detect when someone attempted to cross the border illegally, but further could deliver several neutralizing mechanisms to stun and immobilize the subject until Border Patrol units could arrive and take custody. End Zone had passed its final trials in time for implementation into the new border wall under construction by the U.S. Army’s Corps of Engineers.
The President had stressed the importance of the success of the project, not just because of its political and social ramifications, but also due to the increased violence resulting from unrest between the various special-interest groups keeping the topic of immigration hot.
“Mostly, we just want you to keep the peace and ensure domestic tranquillity,” Brognola had concluded in their mission briefing.
“Marvelous,” had been Lyons’s reply.
Now as they stood and watched their friend at work, Blancanales said with a smirk, “See there, the look on Gadgets’s face? See how happy you’ve made him?”
Lyons shook his head. “Whatever gets you through the day.”
The pair turned and ascended the steps that led into the Tactical Operations Center, a trailer-mounted facility that looked like a rail car, and the only air-conditioned building for miles. The place was relatively cool compared to the blistering heat outside. A small refrigerator in one corner contained shelves of soft drinks and bottled water.
Blancanales made a show of shuddering and said, “Brrr, it’s downright chilly in here.”
Lyons didn’t bother to reply, instead moving over to the refrigerator and grabbing a bottle of water before taking up a stance to look over the shoulder of one of the controllers. The man wore a subdued three-up, one-down chevron on the collars of his desert camouflage uniform blouse: a staff sergeant.
“We online there yet, Sarge?” Lyons asked casually.
“No, sir.”
“How much longer you think?” Lyons asked.
“Almost there now, sir. We’ve rebooted the servers and we should be online…right…now.”
The trio of LCD screens in front of the controller came to life simultaneously and displayed different camera angles on Schwarz and the team members huddled around him near the wall. The pictures were displayed in high-definition format and rendered with full sharpness and opacity, and neither Blancanales nor Lyons could admit they weren’t somewhat impressed.
The pair continued to watch with interest as the controller talked with Schwarz over a headset. The two discussed a few techie-tech things and then Schwarz concluded the conversation with a thumbs-up to the camera before he stepped out of viewing range. A minute later Schwarz entered the TOC. His face beamed with pride and as soon as Blancanales saw it he looked knowingly at Lyons, who chose only to return the look with an exaggerated smile.
“Well, boys,” Schwarz said as he removed his work gloves and slapped at the make-believe dust on his uniform trousers. “It looks like that’s that. I’d have to say End Zone is a complete success.”
Lyons visibly brightened. “Great! Does that mean we can leave now?”
Blancanales mocked him with a stunned expression. “But, Ironman, this is just where the real fun begins.”
Lyons groaned and Schwarz held up a hand to placate him. “Don’t worry, buddy. We only have a few tests we have to run through tonight. But if those pan out, I’d say we’ll probably be able to head out first thing in the morning. So you can call Jack.”
“No go,” Blancanales said. He looked in the direction of the controller and then added, “He’s busy.”
Schwarz nodded, but before anyone could say another word the controller called for their attention. Able Team gathered around as the guy pointed toward one of the screens. It now displayed a different set of cameras that Blancanales recognized from having worked in that location two days prior. The group watched with fascination as two figures climbed over the top of the wall and dropped down onto the U.S. side.
“What’s going on?” Lyons demanded.
“Sergeant, do we have some kind of live exercise scheduled for that area today?” Schwarz asked.
The controller grabbed a nearby clipboard and flipped through several sheets until he came to the one he sought and let his finger trace down an itemized list.
“That’s a negative, sir.”
“Holy crap,” Blancanales said. “We got ourselves a couple real-life border crossers.”
“Where is that, Sergeant?” Lyons demanded.
The controller punched it up on another computer. “Those are the systems mounted at Pitchfork Point.”
“I remember that area,” Schwarz said, exchanging glances with his comrades. “It’s about twenty miles east of the Columbus, New Mexico, port of entry.”
Lyons looked at his watch. “At least an hour away.”
“Shit, sir!” The controller pointed at the cameras and Able Team noticed his face had gone white as a sheet. “What the hell is that?”
The pair who had vaulted the wall a moment earlier suddenly danced around like a pair of marionettes as red splotches appeared along their upper torsos. All the men of Able Team recognized the kind of destructive force that could only have come from automatic weapons.
“Let’s go!” Lyons snapped.
“T HAT’S RIGHT, YEAH !” Lyons barked into his cell phone for the third time in the past two minutes. “Pitchfork Point, that’s what I just said! What, you don’t speak English?”
“Tell them they need to get out of town first,” Schwarz said.
After another moment of silence, Lyons said, “Fine!” He clicked off and muttered, “Morons.”
“They know where they’re going now?” Blancanales inquired from behind the wheel of their Ford Expedition.
“Doubtful.” Lyons twisted in the passenger seat to look at Schwarz, who had his laptop open and was typing furiously at it. “What are you doing?”
“Working with Bear on a direct feed to my laptop. I just talked to Ricchio back at the TOC. He told me right after that pair got shot to shit that a whole gaggle of illegals came over that wall. This time, though, they didn’t shoot them.”
“Do we even know who they are?” Lyons asked.
“What’s a gaggle?” Blancanales asked to lighten the mood.
“Okay, the feed’s coming up now,” Schwarz announced.
They rode in silence for the next minute, each man in his own thoughts about what might lie ahead.
Finally, Schwarz whispered, “Good God…”
“What is it?” Lyons asked.
Schwarz turned the laptop so Lyons could see for himself. It replayed the shooting of the first two men who came over the wall and then displayed the mass of a dozen or so more who followed a minute thereafter. The last thing they saw astonished all of them. Four Border Patrol agents armed with M-16s stepped into view. Each pair grabbed one of the deceased men they had gunned down and dragged them off camera.
“Impossible,” Blancanales said through clenched teeth.
Lyons shook his head. “It’s unthinkable, I’ll agree.”
“Two things are evident here right off,” Schwarz interjected. “First, those two weren’t wasted by Minutemen. Anywhere the wall’s been completed is strictly off-limits to all but authorized personnel. Second, what about the fact they made entry here in the sight of a newly constructed surveillance system in broad daylight?”
“It signifies an act of desperation,” Blancanales replied.
“Exactly,” Lyons added. “There are plenty of easier places to cross the border. Proved places with fewer obstacles and way more running room. That point couldn’t be more than—what?—maybe half a mile from the access road off Route 9.”
“Something stinks to high heaven, no doubt about it.”
In a drifting, almost contemplative tone, Schwarz said, “It’s almost as if they wanted us to see it, to make us believe the Border Patrol gunned down two crossers and then dragged away the evidence.”
“Okay, but what about the rest of the group?” Lyons said. “Why gun down just those two?”
“I don’t know,” Schwarz replied. “But I’m running the feed again. See if I can pick up something else.”
“Well, we’re not just going to sit here on our asses,” Lyons replied. He engaged the speakerphone and dialed in the specially coded number to Stony Man Farm. The line rang twice and was then picked up by Brognola. “Hal, you getting this?”
“We’re watching it right now,” the Stony Man chief replied. “What the hell is going on down there? Border Patrol officers killing illegal immigrants?”
“We’re as surprised as you, boss,” Blancanales replied.
“Well, I have Aaron and his team checking out every inch of the footage we captured. We also talked to this Sergeant Ricchio while we were working on the wireless uplink. He says they lost the feed less than thirty seconds after the segment we recorded there.”
“Lost it how?” Schwarz inquired.
“I wish we knew. All Ricchio could tell us was that they believe the feeds were cut at the source.”
“So they destroyed the cameras,” Lyons said.
“Impossible,” Schwarz said. “Those things are housed inside boxes made of inch-thick titanium alloy plating. It’d take nothing short of a grenade or missile to destroy them. The only other way they could interfere with the transmission at the source would be through the use of a Wi-Fi jammer or severing the hardwired fusible links providing power. And to do that, they’d need some decent insider information.”
“Whatever the explanation,” Lyons said, “this changes the name of the game, Hal.”
“Agreed,” Brognola replied. His voice faded a moment as he asked, “What’s that?” Another tense moment of silence, then, “Bear’s people just came up with something hot. If you replay the footage of the large group coming over the wall, about the third or fourth player over you’ll see his hand rest on top of the wall as he climbs down. The tunic he was wearing is pulled back some and it exposed a tattoo on his forearm, just above the wrist.”
“Can you make it out?” Lyons asked.
“We’re checking the linguistic database now,” Brognola said. “But what we know for sure is it’s an Arabic symbol of some kind. We’ll send more intelligence along as soon as we have something definite.”
“Not good,” Blancanales said matter-of-factly.
“Definitely not good.”
“This could be a lot more serious than you might think,” Brognola continued. “Like I said earlier, David and Phoenix are in Panama. There was an incident down there two days ago. It hasn’t hit the press up here yet, but I’m sure it will shortly. It seems the Panamanian government may have traded shots with a submarine. We think it might have been sent by our al Qaeda friends.”
“You’re just full of good news today, aren’t you?” Lyons retorted.
“You started it.”
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