End of Enemies

by Grant Blackwood

  Minneapolis

  “Tubes one through four are closed and flooded.”

  “Very well,” replied Newman. “Weaps?”

  “Ready to fly.”

  “Radar, conn: Talk to me.”

  “Target bears one-eight-zero, range four-zero nautical. Target coming up on the twelve-mile mark in five … four … three … two … one. Target has crossed.”

  Newman took a breath and nodded to the fire control officer. “Launch.”

  One following the next at ten-second intervals, each of the four Harpoons punched from their tubes and floated toward the surface. Encased in its watertight canister, the first missile broke the surface at a forty-five-degree angle, its nose jutting from the water. Inside the canister, the missile’s computer fired the ignition solenoid, and the engines roared to life.

  70

  Tsumago

  Crouched in the read lead helicopter, Camille watched Tsumago’s bow flash past the open doorway. Beside her, Stucky cradled a Galil assault rifle. She watched his ringers flex on the stock and thought, He’s done this before. He scared her, not only for her sake but for Tanner’s as well. He had burned Briggs, and now he’d come to finish the job. Knowing that, she was in danger as well.

  “Five seconds!” the pilot called. “Positions!”

  As one, the ten commandos crouched over their rope packs. Camille flicked off her Beretta’s safety and dried her palm on her vest

  “You piss your pants yet?” Stucky yelled over the rush.

  “Go screw yourself.”

  “Maybe when this is done, sweetie.”

  Camille felt the helicopter jolt to a stop.

  “Go, go, go!”

  The commandos leapt from the door.

  The PJ pointed at Camille and Stucky. “Go!”

  Camille didn’t think but grabbed the nearest rope and jumped. She hit the deck, rolled to her feet, and looked for Stucky. The CIA man was crouched a few feet away.

  Above them, the helo turned broadside and accelerated away, the door gun firing. The pilothouse windows exploded. Glass peppered the deck. Muzzles flashed from the bridge wings. She felt something zip past her ear and dove flat

  “That’s good!” Stucky shouted. “Stay here and get your ass shot off.”

  He got up and ran aft.

  Camille struggled to her feet and ran after him.

  Twenty-five miles north of Tsumago, the lead harpoon skimmed over the waves at 500 miles per hour. A circuit in its computer brain instructed it to ascend, which it did, climbing to eighty feet, where the radar seeker clicked on. It swept out a pie-shaped section and spotted the target: slightly left of dead center. Another signal went to the fins, which responded by pivoting slightly and easing the missile a few degrees to the left. Once the maneuver was complete, the radar seeker clicked on again and scanned the pie. Now the target was dead center.

  The Harpoon dove again, picking up speed as it went.

  It was nineteen miles and two minutes from the target.

  “FREEZE!”

  Cahil looked up and found himself staring into a gun barrel. “I’m a friendly!”

  One of the commandos, a captain, stepped forward. “Call sign!”

  “Sierra.”

  “Right.” The captain crouched beside him. “What’s this?”

  Bullets peppered the deck. They ducked. “The bomb’s in this hold,” Cahil replied. “Its locked from the inside.”

  “Do you know where the hostages are?”

  “Gotta be on the third deck somewhere … midships is my guess.”

  The captain barked orders. Four of the commandos raced aft.

  Art Stucky and a black-haired woman ran up and knelt beside the hatch. Cahil realized he recognized the woman and did a double take. “What … ?”

  “Later,” Camille said.

  “Where’s Tanner!” Stucky demanded.

  “Down there.”

  “Open it!”

  “It’s locked—” Cahil broke off and stared up at the derrick. He turned to the Israeli captain. “Can you operate that?”

  “Yes, why—”

  “Get on the controls. We’re gonna pry this thing open.”

  Inside the cargo hold, Tanner could hear the muffle chatter of gunfire and boots pounding on the deck above. Al-Baz tore his gaze off the ceiling and glanced at his watch. “Four minutes,” he said. “Four minutes, and we will be close enough. My men will give us time.”

  Tanner glanced at the trigger man. One shot, he thought. One shot was all he would get, and it would have to be the right kind of shot Bridge of the nose. …

  “You!” al-Baz yelled at Tanner. “What are you looking at?”

  Azhar turned and backhanded Tanner across the face. Briggs stumbled into the bulkhead. Azhar drew his pistol, put the barrel against his forehead and hissed, “Do not even think about interfering!” Then, under his breath: “I will take the two guards, you take the trigger man. Wait for me.”

  Azhar turned and walked over to al-Baz. “Mustafa, a word in private?”

  As al-Baz leaned forward to listen, Azhar lashed out with his elbow. It smashed into al-Baz’s face, sending him crashing into the bulkhead. Azhar spun. Guard two turned to-ward him, his own rifle coming up. Azhar shot him twice, then spun toward the guard nearest the bomb. Tanner raised himself to one knee and drew his pistol. Azhar fired. His shot tore into the guard’s chest, shoving him backward.

  Tanner focused on the trigger man. One shot. … He fired.

  The bullet found its mark, striking the man between the eyes. Like a puppet whose strings had been cut, he crumpled to the deck. The trigger box fell from his hand and clattered across the deck.

  Movement. …

  Briggs looked right and saw al-Baz reach for his AK. Tanner spun. Too slow, too slow. … Al-Baz raised himself to his knees, rifle turning….

  “Abu get down!”

  Tanner fired. Even as his three rounds caught al-Baz in the side, flame burst from the AK’s barrel. As if in slow motion, Briggs watched the flame lick outward and touch Azhar’s chest Azhar stumbled backward, crashed into the bomb housing, and slumped down the bulkhead.

  Cordite smoke filled the air. Shell casings tinkled on the deck. Briggs stared at Azhar. Beneath him, blood was spreading across the deck like a pair of black wings. “Abu,” he called. “Abu—”

  “He’s dead.” A few feet away, al-Baz lay propped against the bulkhead. He grinned sleepily and rolled his head toward Tanner. “You’re too late. It’s done.”

  “What?”

  “We’ve done it.”

  Briggs felt a chill. What—? He’d assumed if triggered, the bomb would detonate immediately. He cast his eyes around for the trigger box, saw it, scrambled over, and snatched it up.

  On the faceplate, the LED read 04:52

  71

  Tanner watched the readout change to 04:51 … 04:50 … He looked at al-Baz; face bloody, his head lolled from side to side. “How do I stop it?” Tanner asked.

  “You don’t. You can’t.”

  “How do I stop it!” Briggs yelled. Teeth gritted against the pain, he pushed himself to his knees and pointed the gun at him. “Tell me!”

  Al-Baz grinned, then his eyes fluttered, his chest heaved, and he went still.

  “There’s got to be a—” Briggs stopped.

  Someone was moaning.

  As the firefight between the commandos and al-Baz’s crew raged inside the ship, Cahil, Stucky, and Camille finished hooking the derrick’s cable to the hatch, then stood back. Hovering above them, the helicopters’s gun went silent. The pilothouse was destroyed, its windows shattered and superstructure shredded. The helo crabbed aft and stopped in a hover above the pilothouse; the door gun began tracking back and forth, looking for targets.

  Tsumago was still doing twenty knots but lurching against the drag of the anchor chain trailing beneath her. Gouts of black smoke spewed from
the smokestack, and the engines whined in protest.

  “Okay, back away!” Cahil yelled, stepping off the hatch. He signaled to the Israeli captain at the derrick’s controls. The cable went taut. The hatch’s hydraulic arms groaned. “Keep going! Go!”

  The captain shoved the lever forward. Slowly, the cover began lifting.

  Six miles from Tsumago and twelve seconds behind the lead Harpoon, the radar seekers inside Harpoons 3 and 4 had gone into continuous search mode, scanning their ever-contracting sectors for the target Having no way of knowing Tsumago had slowed, both missiles were searching empty patches of ocean two miles ahead of the ship. They scanned without success for another twenty seconds and then, having reached the limit of their flight plan, shut down and plunged into the ocean.

  Two miles ahead of them, Harpoons 1 and 2 were also in continuous search mode. However, having acquired the target early and made the necessary corrections, both showed Tsumago dead on their zero points. Satisfied they were on target, the computer brains in each missile sent two signals, one to the radar seeker, which switched to rapid pulse, and another to the 500-pound warhead, which armed itself.

  Tanner heard the wrenching of steel above him. Sunlight streamed into the compartment. He ignored it and kept crawling toward Azhar. Abu’s eyes fluttered open and he saw Tanner. “Briggs….”

  “Hang on, Abu.” Briggs felt tears fill his eyes. The AK’s bullets had shredded Azhar’s stomach; intestines jutted from his shirt. “Don’t move.”

  With a shriek of steel, the hatch came free. Tanner looked up. Silhouetted by the sunlight, three figures stood on the combing. His vision cleared and he saw Cahil’s grinning face. Bear!

  Standing beside him were Stucky and Camille. Doesn’t make sense, he thought dully. Why are—

  “Briggs!” Cahil called.

  Tanner raised his hand against the glare. Blackness crept into the edge of vision. God, he hurt. He levered himself to his knees and focused on Camille.

  “It was you,” he murmured. “It was you from the start”

  As designed, both harpoon’ seekers homed in on the strongest radar return, in this case, the corner where Tsumago’s superstructure met the forward arch, a confluence of right angles that created an electromagnetic bull’s-eye. Also by design, each Harpoon’s computer brain paused exactly &OB:; of a second to let the nose cone burrow into the ship, then detonated the warhead.

  Tsumago rocked to starboard as though shoved by a giant, invisible hand. Flames and black smoke gushed from the wound and rolled up the superstructure. A cloud of shrapnel shot skyward. Fragments peppered the pilothouse like hail.

  On the main deck, Cahil was knocked to his knees. He looked aft.

  Hovering over the pilothouse, its rotors vainly clawing at the air, the Israeli helicopter was rolling onto its side. The blades slammed into the windows, sending shards of glass and red-hot steel onto the foredeck. The helo flipped onto its back and tumbled toward the forecastle.

  Cahil shoved Camille toward the hatch, then he and Stucky leapt after her.

  They landed hard inside the hold and lay stunned for a moment.

  Teetering on his knees, Tanner stared at them, his gun dangling from his hand. He could feel the deck slanting beneath him. “Bear,” he muttered.

  “Here, buddy.” Bear crawled to him.

  “Its running, Bear. They hit the button.”

  Cahil started toward the bomb but was stopped short.

  “Don’t move!”

  Tanner and Cahil turned. Stucky was on his feet, rifle pointed at them. To their left, Camille struggled to her feet.

  “I said, don’t move!” Stucky shouted again.

  Tanner realized he was looking past them. Briggs turned.

  Azhar sat propped against the bomb housing. In his left hand he held the trigger. He stared at it, tears streaming down his face. He looked at Tanner.

  “I’m sorry, Briggs. I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t … you … move!” Stucky bellowed.

  Tanner said, “Art, he’s not—”

  “Shut up!”

  To Stucky’s right, Camille began edging toward an AK-47 lying on the deck. Tanner jerked his gun up. “Not another inch, Camille.”

  “Briggs, what—”

  “Stay right where you are. Art, just relax. He isn’t—”

  “Bullshit!”

  Camille said, “Briggs, what are you doing? I—”

  “I saw you, Camille. I saw you at the warehouse. You led them there.”

  Another explosion rocked the ship. The deck canted beneath their feet. Shell casings began sliding toward the port bulkhead, clinking like broken glass. Tanner could hear the gurgle of seawater climbing the hull outside.

  “No!” Camille said. “God, no! Briggs, I—”

  “Bear, cover her,” Tanner ordered.

  Cahil raised his Glock. “Got her.”

  Tanner called over his shoulder, “Abu, how much time?”

  “Four minutes,” Azhar croaked.

  Tanner turned back to Stucky. “He’s not one of them, Art.”

  “You’re one naive son of a bitch, you know that?”

  “Don’t do it, Art.”

  “Drop your gun.”

  “No.”

  “Drop it, or I’ll shoot him right now!”

  Cahil muttered, “Briggs?”

  “Stay where you are, Bear. Okay, Art, just take it easy. …” Very carefully, Tanner leaned over and set the pistol on the deck. “There. We still have time—”

  “Kick it away and step back.”

  Tanner kicked the gun across the deck and took a step to the right.

  Stucky shook his head sadly and then chuckled.

  In that instant, in Stucky’s ugly grin, Briggs saw it all. It was him.

  Stucky said, “Payback’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

  “Don’t, Art.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Don’t!”

  Stucky pulled the trigger. Tanner charged. As they collided, Briggs heard four rapid pops. Stucky grunted, they fell backward together. As they hit the deck, Stucky rolled sideways, trying to swing the rifle barrel into Tanner’s belly.

  Tanner batted it away and heaved backward, pulling them both to their feet. He wrenched the Galil from Stucky’s hands, reversed it, and slammed the butt into Stucky’s face. Blood exploded from his nose. He stumbled backward, bounced off the bulkhead, and lurched forward. Tanner was ready. He dropped his shoulder and swung with everything he had. The Galil’s butt caught Stucky under the chin, snapping his head back. Stucky went down hard and lay still.

  Tanner stared down at him. The room was swimming. He was the one, he thought. Not Camille … him! He took a step forward and put the barrel to Stucky’s temple.

  “Briggs!”

  One squeeze …

  “Briggs, the bomb!”

  The word hit Tanner like an electric charge. He turned. Azhar lay face up on the deck. He was dead. All four of Stucky’s shots had struck his face and neck. As the deck continued to tilt, the body rolled onto its side and slid into the corner.

  Camille stepped forward and touched his arm. “Oh, Briggs …”

  He squeezed her hand. “I know. How much time, Bear?”

  “Three minutes.”

  From above, they heard the sound of helicopter rotors followed by shouts. A shadow passed over the hatch. More shouts, then footsteps pounding on the deck.

  “Can we stop it, Bear?”

  Cahil crouched beside the housing. “It would take at least five minutes just to trace the wiring.”

  “It’s an imploder?”

  “Right.”

  “There might be a way, then.”

  Tanner explained what he had in mind.

  “Risky,” said Cahil.

  “Is the alternative any worse?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  They went to work. The deck was slanting badly now�
�fifty degrees at least—and they had to grip the housing to keep from sliding. Camille stood with one leg on the deck, the other braced against the bulkhead.

  “Camille, you should leave,” Tanner said.

  “I’m staying.”

  “If you go now, you can get clear.”

  “I’m staying.”

  “Are your people getting the hostages?”

  “Yes.”

  Fifty kilotons, Tanner thought. What kind of blast radius? If what he had in mind failed, they would soon find out.

  “Give me your gun, Bear.”

  Cahil pulled out his Glock and handed it over.

  Tanner removed the magazine and ejected a bullet. Using Cahil’s multitool, he pried the slug from the cartridge and handed it to Bear. Next, careful not to spill the gunpowder, Briggs slid the cartridge into the Glock’s chamber, closed the slide, and set the gun upright between his knees.

  “Time?” he asked.

  “Two minutes thirty.”

  The deck slanted past sixty degrees. Through the hatch, Tanner could see the sky tipping as Tsumago rolled onto her side. He lost his footing, slipped, and scrambled to pull himself back to the housing.

  Using his index finger and thumb, Cahil pressed the slug against the deck. “Ready?”

  Tanner nodded.

  “Do it!”

  Tanner reversed the multitool, took aim, and struck.

  “Again,” said Cahil.

  Tanner struck again.

  “Once more.”

  Cahil examined the bullet. The blows had flattened the hollow-point nose, but left the harder copper tail intact.

  “It’ll have to do,” Tanner said.

  Camille asked, “What are you doing?”

  “Improvising,” Tanner replied. “Time, Bear.”

  “Ninety seconds.”

  “Gimme al-Baz’s kaffiyeh.”

  “I’ll do it, Briggs. You—”

  “Give it to me, Bear.”

  “Stubborn son of a bitch.” Cahil grabbed the bloody scarf from around al-Baz’s neck and wrapped it tightly around Tanner’s hand and forearm. “Might not be enough, you know,” he whispered. “Your hand will—”