End of Enemies

by Grant Blackwood

  In pitch blackness, he unbuckled his harness, flipped over, and arched his back to clear the shroud. This was the most dangerous part. Filled with water, an airfoil weighs two tons and sticks like flypaper. He broke the surface and took a gulp of air.

  Thirty feet to his right, he could see the green glow of his sled’s chem-light. He sidestroked to it, detached the shield, let the weights take it down, then switched on his radio headset.

  “Sierra, talk to me.” One by one, the team checked in. There were no injuries, but Wilts reported the SATCOM transceiver had collided with his sled. The casing was cracked. “Weight it and drop it,” said Cahil. Losing the SATCOM was bad, but they still had their tactical radios, so their link to Alpha—the most critical one—was still intact. “Okay people, my beacon’s up. Form on me.”

  Within five minutes, they were gathered in a circle. The sea was running about four feet and was covered with a thin surface fog. Cahil pulled out his Magellan and called for Tsumago’s position. He read the numbers and frowned.

  “Problem, Bear?” asked Smitty.

  “Don’t know.” He recycled the Magellan. The numbers were the same. He pulled out his laminated chart, clicked on his penlight, and plotted the coordinates. “Smitty, check yours.” Smitty did so, then compared the readout to Cahil’s.

  “We’re almost thirty miles off,” Bear muttered.

  “What?” asked Slud.

  “Tsumago should be fifteen miles southwest of us. According to GPS, she’s dead in the water twenty-eight miles to the east, nearer the Canaries.”

  “That ain’t good,” said Johnson. “Even if she stays put, we’re three hours away.”

  Cahil thought it over. Without SATCOM, they couldn’t call for additional orders. Time for an executive decision, then. There was too much riding on this to simply quit at the first obstacle. Unless Tsumago’s destination had changed—which he doubted—she’d simply made a detour. If so, sooner or later, she would resume her course. He was betting Alpha would compensate accordingly.

  “What’s the plan, boss?” asked Wilts.

  “We head for the corner. This is straight geometry. It’s in a triangle. We’re on one corner and the target’s on the second. If she resumes course, we’ll intercept her right about …” He tapped the chart. “Here … the third corner. Twelve miles.”

  “And if she stays put?”

  “Then we keep our eye on her, adjust as necessary, and hit her where she is.”

  “That’s four hours in the water, Bear,” said Smitty. Four hours at this temperature would put a dangerous drain on the team.

  “You got anything better to do?” Cahil said. “Trust me: She’ll move.” God, please make her move. “Given their cargo, I doubt they’ll loiter.”

  The team’s sleds—Mark7 IDVs (Individual Delivery Vehicles)—were a marvel of compact engineering. Light, virtually noiseless, and surprisingly agile, the sled’s electric motor was capable of towing a 200-pound man and his gear at eight knots for ten hours; with leg power, the top speed increased to ten knots.

  After thirty minutes of travel, Cahil called a stop to check the Magellan.

  “How about it, boss?” Smitty called.

  “We’re in business,” Cahil said. “She’s moving. Course is zero-eight-zero … straight for us.”

  National Military Command Center, Washington

  What General Cathermeier had told the president was only partially true. In fact, both teams were reachable, though not immediately: Sierra via their SATCOM unit, and Alpha via Jurens’s final go/no-go check with Ford. Cathermeier had already sent the abort message to Ford. Sierra, however, was another matter. Cahil’s team was still not responding.

  “There are two possibilities,” said Dutcher. “Either they’re unable to respond or it’s an equipment problem. Better we assume the latter and see how it plays out.” Dutcher was praying for the latter. If Ian was unable to respond, that meant something had gone fatally wrong during the HALO. At that altitude, in the dead of night … He leaned over the chart. “Here’s Sierra’s drop point,” he said. “Tsumago and Valverde are here.”

  “Almost thirty miles between them,” said Talbot. “I’d say that solves our problem. There’s no way Sierra can reach the target.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

  “What do you mean, Dutch?” asked the president.

  “I know Cahil, sir. By now he knows they’ve lost SAT-COM and he knows Tsumago’s not where she’s supposed to be. Without orders to the contrary, he’ll do what it takes to reach her.”

  Talbot said, “It’s thirty miles, for God sake!”

  “Maybe not.”

  One of the communication technicians called: “General, we have Ford for you. Secure channel five.”

  Cathermeier took the handset. “Cowboy, this is Coaldust, over.”

  “Coaldust, per your request, we’ve been listening in on Fuertaventura’s harbor channel. We’ve intercepted a transmission. Are your recorders running?”

  “Affirmative, Cowboy, go ahead.”

  A new voice came over the speaker: “… Valverde, this is Fuertaventura. Say again your last transmission.”

  “Fuertaventura, I repeat, this is Captain Stein of Valverde. We have been boarded. Two of my crew are dead. They have taken hostages.”

  “Valverde, you are garbled. Understand you have been boarded. Understand you have hostages. Where are the hostages at this time?”

  “I told you, man! They took them. They’re gone!”

  East of the Canary Islands

  Cahil called another halt to check the Magellan, then plotted Tsumago’s coordinates on the chart. For the first time in his adult life, Bear was glad he’d stayed awake during high school geometry. The triangle was closing. Unless she changed course again, the third corner would be their intercept point.

  “We got two miles to go,” he called. “If we push hard, we’ll be there in twenty-five minutes.” With Tsumago’s top speed at twenty knots, that would leave them thirty minutes to prepare.

  They beat Cahil’s estimate by three minutes. Once certain they were in the right spot, he spread Sierra in a line abreast, with himself at point and Smitty at anchor. Each man was linked to the next by seven-millimeter shock cord.

  Sierra would board Tsumago via snag-line, a method rarely used because it broke the simpler-is-better rule of special operations. Traditional assault doctrine called for a stern approach by ICRRC (improved combat rubber raiding craft) and a midships boarding. This method had its drawbacks, however, two of which influenced Bear’s decision.

  A stern approach would have required a HAHO jump and a boat pursuit, both problematic because of Tsumago’s radar. The other consideration was the ship’s siege-proof construction, which could become a problem if they found themselves in a standoff. Surprise was essential. Moreover, any increase in security aboard Tsumago would likely come in the form of lookouts, which would spot an ICRRC a mile away. As for a bow lookout spotting them, Cahil was unworried. In this fog, they would be all but invisible.

  He pulled out his binoculars, looked to the southwest, but saw nothing. “Everybody get comfortable and look sharp.”

  Five minutes later, Wilts called over the radio, “Target, boss. Three miles.”

  What? Cahil checked his watch: It was too early to be Tsumago.

  He peered through his binoculars. In the distance, a pair of red and green running lights sat low on the water. Neither were obstructed, which meant she was headed straight for them. He checked the Magellan. The bearing and range were correct, but the timing was wrong. It was too late to second-guess, he decided.

  “That’s our ride, gentlemen. Tighten up the line. I’ll call out steerage.”

  Two minutes later, Cahil could see Tsumago’s outline clearly. Even at this distance, he could see her bow wave curling halfway up the hull.

  Smitty called, “Damn, Bear, she’s moving fast.”

  “I kno
w, I see it.”

  Thirty knots or better, Bear estimated. He did a quick calculation. Tsumago was bearing down on them at a rate of sixty feet per second.

  “Slud, gimme a range guess,” Cahil called.

  “Make it thirty-five hundred.”

  Less than three minutes. Decide, Bear! Thirty knots was much too fast for a bow hook. Any miscalculation, and they’d end up red smears on the hull. But then again, they’d come this far …

  “You boys feel like going for a ride?” he called.

  “Damn straight,” said Wilts.

  “I was getting bored anyway, boss,” called Smitty.

  Cahil grinned and revved the sled’s throttle. “Stick close!”

  Tsumago ate up the distance quickly. At five hundred yards Cahil could feel the rumble of her screws in his belly. Four hundred yards … forty seconds to go. The bow lifted and plunged, lifted and plunged, froth hissing against the hull.

  “Dump sleds,” Cahil ordered.

  In unison, each team member opened the ballast vents on his IDV and let it drop away. Cahil cast a glance over his shoulder and counted seven heads strung out behind him.

  The rush of the wave was thunderous now. He could feel it lifting him, pushing him. He scissored his legs to stay on the crest. The hull loomed over him. Wait … wait … now!

  He launched himself forward and slammed the MCD against the hull. The magnet stuck, slid a few feet, then held. He released it, let the line slide through his fingers, then clamped down. Water streamed over his head and into his mouth and nose. He coughed, snatched a breath, and pulled himself against the hull.

  He felt a double pat on his shoulder: Smitty had secured the anchor.

  Cahil looked over his shoulder. One by one, seven black-gloved hands gave the thumbs-up signal. By God, they’d made it!

  He leaned out and signaled to Slud, who braced his feet against the hull and pulled out a rubber-coated grappling hook. He swung it once, heaved it over the rail, then gave it a couple of tugs and started climbing.

  57

  Aboard Boxcar

  Twenty-two miles east of Tsumago, Jurens and his team were awaiting Cahil’s signal. Frustrated as he was, Jurens knew they were better off than Sierra. As insertion methods went, they had it easy.

  At forty million dollars, the MH-53 Pave Low is the most sophisticated helicopter in the world. Manned by two pilots, a flight engineer, and two PJs, or para-jumpers who also serve as loadmasters, the Pave Low is fast, quiet, and as agile as a World War I biplane. Crammed inside a cockpit that would put a James Bond movie to shame are over 900 dials, gauges, and switches with which the pilots monitor the aircraft and its ENS, or enhanced navigation system, which includes forward looking infrared radar, LANTIRN (a low altitude nav/targeting aid) and a communication system comparable to those found on AWACS.

  None of this technology improved Jurens’s mood, however. Where was Sierra? The distance they had to cover to reach Tsumago was daunting, but if there was a way, Bear would find it.

  Jurens popped his head into the darkened cockpit. “How’re we doing?”

  “Fine as long as the coupler stays on-line,” said the pilot. “Hovering this thing manually is a real pain in the ass.” To keep pace with Tsumago, every six minutes the pilot was disengaging the coupler and dashing ahead two miles.

  “How’s our juice?”

  “Twenty minutes at most. Whatever we’re waiting for better happen soon.”

  As if on cue, a light blinked on the engineer’s comm panel. “That’s them!” said Jurens. “The show’s on, Captain. Let’s go.”

  “Roger. We’ll be over the deck in six minutes.”

  “Contact Cowboy, tell them we’re inbound.”

  Jurens went aft where PJs began assembling the fast-rope packs. One of them tapped Jurens on the shoulder and jerked his thumb to the cockpit. Jurens went forward. “What’s up?”

  “Cowboy gave us the abort,” the pilot said.

  “What?”

  “It’s for real. They want us to turn around.”

  “My people are already aboard—”

  “Commander, I’ve got my orders—”

  “I want a secure line to Coaldust.” When it was set up, Jurens said into the handset, “Coaldust, this is Boxcar, over.”

  “Go ahead, Boxcar.”

  Jurens recognized Cathermeier’s voice. “General, what’s going on?”

  “The target boarded a cruise liner. There’re hostages involved.”

  “Sir, I’ve got men already aboard.”

  “What?” said Cathermeier. “They made it? Sierra’s aboard?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Stand by.” Cathermeier was back in twenty seconds. “Boxcar, as soon as you have Sierra on tactical, order them out. Search and rescue is en route. Coaldust out.”

  The channel went to static. Jurens threw down the handset. “Shit!”

  Tsumago

  Crouched in the shadows beneath the pilothouse, Cahil led his team aft to the first hatch. He turned the lever, peeked inside, stepped through.

  The passageway was empty and dark, aside from red battle lanterns dotting the bulkheads. Spaced between the lanterns were palm-sized yellow emergency buttons. Either these folks were safety fanatics or they were planning for the worst.

  “Clear right,” he whispered in his headset.

  “Clear left.”

  “Six clear.” Slud, the anchor man, eased the hatch closed.

  The passageway was bracketed by two ladders. Forward led to the bridge; aft to below decks. “Lead moving,” Cahil whispered. “Aft ladder.”

  He led them down. As each man took the rungs, he never stopped moving—turning, scanning, MP5 held at low-ready. At the bottom, they fanned out.

  Cahil counted five hatches. Bunk rooms and mess area. Next ladder at the end of the passageway. Last hatch leads to forward cargo. Using hand signals, he split his team, sending Slud and two men into the bunk rooms, Smitty and three others to the cargo hold. He would disable the radio himself.

  He found the radio room hatch partially open, revealing one of the crew sitting in a chair reading a magazine. On the table beside him was a Tokarev pistol. The man turned, saw Cahil, and dove for the Tokarev. Cahil fired. The three-round burst slammed into the man’s side, and he crumpled to the floor.

  “Boss, Slud here.”

  “Go ahead,” whispered Cahil.

  “Bunk room and mess clear. Bear, these boys were sleeping with their AKs.”

  “Yeah, here, too. Come aft, secure the ladder.”

  Cahil was starting on the radio’s faceplate screws when he heard a double beep in his ear: tactical radio. He switched frequencies. “Sierra on tac two.”

  It was Jurens. “Sit rep, Bear.”

  “Second deck secured, we’re heading down and forward.”

  “Belay that. We’re aborting.”

  Cahil froze. “Stand by.” He switched channels. “Slud, Smitty, say location.”

  “Third deck ladder.”

  “Outside the cargo hatch.”

  “Hold positions.” Cahil switched back to Jurens. “What’s up?”

  “There are hostages aboard, Bear. Exfil any way you can. SAR’s on the way.”

  Hostages? Where did they … Then he understood: Tsumago’s diversion.

  His first instinct was to go for the rescue. Right now they had the advantage, but once the crew found they’d been boarded, they would button up the ship. On the other hand, Sierra’s original plan was shot to hell: They had no intell and no way to evacuate hostages short of tossing them overboard.

  “Roger, copy exfil,” Cahil replied. He switched channels. “Sierra, backtrack to me. We’re leaving.”

  On Tsumago’s bridge, al-Baz had no idea his ship had been penetrated. His mind was elsewhere.

  In less than a day they would slip past the Strait of Gibraltar and into the Mediterranean. Once there, the crew wou
ld go to a state of constant readiness, for when news of Valverde got out, a boarding attempt would be imminent. This did not concern him. All attempts would either fail or come too late. He allowed himself a smile. All the planning, all the training, was now paying off.

  “Sir, you’re wanted in the radar room.”

  Al-Baz stepped into the alcove. The ESM operator sat hunched over his console. “What is it?”

  “I just intercepted a signal, sir.”

  “What kind?”

  “Radio.” The operator pointed to the scope face, which showed a green spoke jutting from the center. “It’s scrambled. Bearing two-zero-one, signal strength five.”

  That meant the source was within fifty miles. Scrambled transmissions were generally used by only military craft. Was there a unit nearby? al-Baz wondered. If so, was it merely coincidence or something more?

  “Energize the radar. Give me a sector search on that bearing.”

  The operator did so, marked the screen with a grease pencil, and switched off the radar. There was only one blip. It was dead astern.

  “It’s small,” said the operator. “Either a boat or an aircraft at low altitude.”

  An attack this soon seemed improbable. Nevertheless, here was this craft—whatever it was—shadowing them. That made no sense, though. If an attempt at surveillance, why not use a high-altitude patrol plane or a satellite?

  He turned to one of the bridge crew. “Go wake Khalid and Mujad. Tell them to take lookout positions.”

  Boxcar

  Four minutes, Jurens thought. Plenty of time for them to get overboard. Come on, Bear, talk to me. …

  A light blinked on the engineer’s panel. “Alpha, this is Sierra, over,”

  Jurens grabbed the handset. “Go ahead, Bear.”

  “Alpha, be advised, we—” The popping of gunfire filled Jurens’s headphones. “—taking fire. No casualties, but things—” More gunfire. “—getting hot. Do you copy, Alpha?”