Sensor Sweep

by Don Pendleton

  “You’re suggesting your people can handle this, then?”

  “I have no reason at this point to think otherwise, Mr. President,” Brognola replied firmly.

  Lusk snickered.

  The President looked at him. “You disagree, Frank?”

  “I’m afraid I have to, sir,” Lusk replied. “I mean no disrespect to Mr. Brognola here…or his people. And I certainly don’t want to talk out of turn. But as your National Security Adviser, I would think we should consider a military response as the first and best approach.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Well, for one thing, I’ve not seen Mr. Brognola present any evidence whatsoever to suggest there’s anything substantial in his theory regarding these freighters. I realize that perhaps I don’t have all of the information but—”

  “That’s right, Mr. Lusk,” Brognola cut in. “You don’t have all the information.”

  “Hal,” the President said, raising a hand. “Please. I don’t want this to turn into something bad. Let’s hear Frank out.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Lusk said. “And even if we are to assume his theory’s correct, I’m not sure he has the resources necessary to cover the area we’re talking about. These ships could be anywhere, and if we don’t start dispersing our fleets now, we might not be able to respond in time if an attack should come. We could have another disaster on our hands. And it could be a lot worse if they fire warheads loaded with chemical or biological agents.”

  Damn, but Lusk was good. Of course, he did have a couple of accurate points, such as the disaster a chemical attack would cause, and the time to respond. But what Lusk didn’t know was the steely resolve of the Stony Man group. He didn’t know the cybernetics team that worked tirelessly, disseminating row upon endless row of data records. Every scrap of information that came through Stony Man computers was analyzed, cataloged and warehoused in an appropriate archive. When the men in the field needed intelligence or the White House assigned a new mission, Lusk wasn’t there to watch Barbara Price sit long hours with Aaron Kurtzman, drinking gallon after gallon of bad coffee as they dotted every “i” and crossed every “t” to insure the safety of the men.

  But mostly, Lusk didn’t know Able Team and Phoenix Force. He didn’t know these men personally. He didn’t know their dedication to their country and devotion to duty; didn’t know all the losses and sacrifice they had endured for so many years to protect the American way of life; didn’t spend the many hours pacing the floor with Brognola as he worried about his friends and their selfless acts of daring, all in the name of freedom and justice. That’s what Lusk didn’t know. And how could he? Nobody could, because they didn’t come home to ticker-tape parades and awards ceremonies. Instead, they usually returned to a bleak farm in some nameless location, perhaps lucky if they could grab a hot bath, decent meal and good night’s sleep before having to go and do it all again.

  But Hal Brognola understood it—all too well. He understood because he’d lived it far longer than he cared to remember. The celebration of his birthday the day before made him realize just how lucky he was. He commanded the most elite counterterrorism unit in the world, and he had the privilege of friendship with people like Barbara Price, Aaron Kurtzman and Mack Bolan. Almost daily he was forced to decide the fate of eight men, among whom he counted as comrades-in-arms, and he had immediate access to the most powerful man in the free world.

  So, yeah, he took it a bit personally when guys like Frank Lusk interfered. Hell, he probably knew more about Lusk than Lusk knew about himself. He could have told Lusk what his temperature was at his last physical if he really wanted to know, and yet now he had to sit here and put up with this bullshit. Well, he’d take it only out of respect for the Man, and not for any other reason. Brognola studied the President. He could see the wheels turning behind those sharp blue eyes. Finally, the President looked at Brognola, and obviously saw something behind the Stony Man chief’s expression that told him what Brognola was thinking. He turned to Lusk and smiled gently. “Frank, would you excuse us a moment?”

  Lusk started to open his mouth, looking as if he were going to object, then he rose, nodded to Brognola and left the room. The President nodded, indicating that the agents should leave, as well.

  “I’m sorry about that, Hal,” the President said. “Frank’s a good man, but at times he can be a bit too…anal retentive. He does mean well, though, and I can tell you with certainty that he always has the best interests of this country at heart.”

  “You don’t owe me any apologies, sir,” Brognola replied. He grinned, adding, “Unless, of course, you tell me I have to start working with him on a regular basis.”

  The President chuckled and raised a hand in mock defense. “I promise not to do that, but I do believe he has a point. It would be difficult to mobilize any kind of effective response if we wait until this Qibla threat, real or not, was on top of us.”

  “I promise that won’t happen,” Brognola said in a quiet, firm tone. “I won’t let it happen, and I speak for all of my people when I say that.”

  “I believe you.” The President cleared his throat. “But I had other reasons for bringing Lusk in, as well. Reasons that are on a need-to-know basis and none of your concern. The important thing is that you know I’m ultimately inclined to trust your judgment. You believe the men can neutralize this before it’s a problem?”

  “They’re already on it,” Brognola said. “In fact, Able Team is investigating the freighter that suddenly changed course and headed for Boston Harbor. And it won’t be long before we’ve located the other three Qibla targets, assuming that freighter is one of them. Once that’s accomplished, the field teams will do exactly what they’ve always done.”

  The President nodded with a knowing wink. “Shoot first, ask questions later. I got it.”

  “We won’t let you down, sir,” Brognola said. “I promise.”

  The Man nodded, then rose. The meeting was over, and he extended his hand. “Well, unless you have something else, then, I have another engagement. I assume at our next contact you’ll be advising that this threat has been neutralized.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “And just so we’re on the level, Hal, I do plan to advise the Joint Chiefs I would like to increase air patrols in all key coastal areas. If these terrorists somehow do manage to get a missile off, I intend to make sure it never reaches American shores. And as you don’t have the resources to stop such an attack, it seems only defensible I employ military means to run interference.”

  Brognola grinned at the reference. The commander-in-chief was a huge football fan. “Any help is always appreciated, Mr. President.”

  The Man nodded and left.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Boston coast

  Rosario Blancanales was first aboard the freighter.

  A stiff ocean breeze tugged at the small tufts of hair that protruded from the black stocking cap. Black cosmetics covered his face, lessening the chance that slivers of moonlight would betray him to the enemy. He could sense they awaited him and his fellow warriors. Yeah, he could actually feel it.

  Death waited somewhere on that freighter.

  The sound of the USCG chopper overhead, its searchlight piercing the night, caused Blancanales to throw himself against the nearest wall and crouch, his MP-5/40 tracking the area around him. He glanced backward and saw Schwarz, who had been next up the ladder, freeze. His gritted teeth were visible in the reflections carried by the massive searchlight built onto the Jayhawk.

  Blancanales keyed the transceiver. “Hey, Ironman, tell those hombres to cool it with that chopper. I want it at two hundred yards back, and no lights. I don’t feel like getting my dick shot off because they’re itching for some action.”

  A single click acknowledged that Lyons had received his message, and thirty seconds later the light winked out and the chopper moved away, the sound of its blades fading on the wind.

  The freighter had continued moving despit
e repeated warnings to stop. Finally, Lyons had given permission for the chopper to take up a position where they could take out the rudder and screws, if necessary, but they still insisted on boarding the vessel while it was moving. Naturally, Captain Bryant had argued against the maneuver again, cited a half dozen Coast Guard regulations, but Able Team ignored him. They were the experienced antiterrorists, and it would still be another ten minutes before the small-boat teams arrived.

  Lyons got his way.

  “You’re clear, Pol,” Lyons said. “Proceed on mission.”

  “Roger.”

  Blancanales eased forward, staying at a crouch as he came up on the port side of the bridge tower. They had approached in the Lockett from the rear, and once the cutter had matched speed, Able Team attached a grappling ladder and easily ascended to the deck. Such an assault was more treacherous at night, but this had been one of those situations where they hadn’t been afforded a time of their choosing. Besides, dawn would be here soon.

  Blancanales willed himself to relax. His ears were attuned to every sound. He sensed the deep rumble of the freighter’s engines beneath his feet; listened to the lap of the waves against the slow-moving ship; took note of each and every element and then filtered it so he could hear anything out of the ordinary. Occasionally he would crouch and raise a fist to signal Schwarz and Lyons that they should hold position.

  Finally he reached the base of the bridge tower and studied the darkened windows. There wasn’t a single light on inside the bridge and he considered the oddity of that. It seemed like a ghost ship, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling something was amiss. He suspected a huge threat loomed close. If the terrorists were hiding somewhere aboard this freighter, they were waiting for just the right opportunity. According to Bryant’s report, the crew aboard the Jayhawk had nearly missed the ship because of its blackout condition. Blancanales considered his enemies for a moment, tried to think as they might, assessing every possible move. It was like a game of chess. The pieces had to be in the right place, but a player had also to consider the real objective of the game. It wasn’t to put the player’s king in checkmate, as most laypersons might suspect; that was simply a reward for the victor. To control as much as possible the four center squares of the board was the true objective. To do that was to control the game, and ultimately the key to winning.

  That thought came to Blancanales at the same moment as an explosion on the port side of the freighter. The Able Team commando threw himself to the deck instinctively and he heard and felt the heat as the massive explosion rocketed debris and flames over his head. The ball of superheated gases lit the night as effectively as a flare, and flaming debris rained onto the deck a moment later.

  Blancanales turned and felt relief to see that both of his comrades had survived the blast.

  He keyed the transceiver. “What the hell was that?”

  “The Lockett just biffed it!” Lyons roared. “They blew it to hell!”

  Blancanales didn’t need any more information than that. The enemy had played the game correctly, and they had control of the center of the board, that being the freighter. With the Lockett out of commission, the Able Team warriors were trapped on the freighter, with only the Jayhawk as a saving grace. Blancanales got to his feet and raced to the nearest railing. In the wash of light from the flames that licked up from the cutter wreckage and reflected off the freighter’s hull, Blancanales could see several small boats, painted black as the night, zip past his position and circle the freighter like birds of prey did carrion.

  Lights winked from the boat and Blancanales staggered back in time to avoid the flurry of hot lead that buzzed past his ears. He landed hard on the deck, his right shoulder taking the brunt of his weight on impact, and bit his tongue. He cursed and spat blood, then scrambled to move farther from the railing. He looked toward his comrades, seeing Schwarz make a beeline for his position.

  The relief was evident in his friend’s eyes. “You okay?”

  Blancanales nodded. “Where’s Ironman?”

  “Right here,” the Able Team leader replied, joining them. He’d obviously taken a circuitous route to reach the pair.

  “This iron rust bucket’s nothing but a decoy,” Blancanales said.

  Lyons nodded. “Oldest trick in the book.”

  “And we fell for it,” Schwarz added.

  “Well, it’s not over yet,” Lyons stated. “Let’s start giving back. I’ve radioed for support from the chopper.”

  As if on cue, the Jayhawk roared overhead, spotlight sweeping the area around the freighter. It wasn’t armed with any cannons, but there were two crew members aboard carrying M-16 A-3s. They began to fire on the smaller boats, which Able Team could hear buzzing past them. Gunfire erupted from the boats in response and some of it sounded louder and heavier than standard AR fire.

  “Machine guns?” Blancanales asked.

  “Afraid so,” Schwarz replied. He slapped the launcher on his M-16/M-203 over-and-under, and added, “We need to put some heavy fire on those boats if we can. Our boys aboard the chopper won’t have unlimited ammo.”

  “Well, then,” Lyons said with a wicked grin, “let’s see if we can show them how it’s done.”

  The pair assisted their teammate to his feet, then split up, each heading in a different direction. Blancanales moved toward the front of the vessel, keeping as close to the center of the freighter as he could to avoid exposing himself before he was ready. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret for the loss of brave souls aboard the Coast Guard cutter. Bryant and his men hadn’t stood a chance, the poor bastards. Blancanales would make sure the terrorists knew that the spilling of American blood came at a very high cost. Theirs.

  He reached the foredeck and sprinted to the portside railing. He grinned at his good fortune. One of the speedboats approached from his right, visible in the half-light of dawn now breaking the horizon. It was a twenty-foot, high-speed powerboat, its sleek lines accentuated by a forward mounted machine gun. A figure dressed head to toe in combat fatigues manned the weapon. Blancanales extended the MP-5/40 in his right arm and squeezed the trigger, using his well-conditioned muscles to steady the SMG. Sparks flew from the boat where the rounds struck the fiberglass and metal bow. The Able Team commando adjusted his aim on the fly, continuing with a steady barrage of .40 S&W slugs. As the boat went past, he managed to take the machine-gunner, the impact knocking the man from his berth and dumping him off the side. The terrorist’s body hit the water hard, the wave dissipating in the wake of the boat as it rocketed past his position.

  Blancanales dropped the magazine when the MP-5/40 went dry, watching as the speedboat zipped ahead of the freighter. Another terrorist climbed up to the machine gun, balancing himself precariously as the boat turned a wide circle and made a return run for the freighter. The Able Team commando steadied the weapon with two hands on the rail, pressed his cheek to the stock and aligned his sights on the helmsman. Weapon snug against his shoulder, he moved the selector to 3-round bursts and squeezed the trigger steadily. The first burst went high, but the second caught the helmsman straight-on. All three rounds in the second volley punched through the guy’s face and his head exploded under the impact. His body dropped from sight and Blancanales raised his head long enough to determine the boat was headed straight for his position.

  The collision occurred moments later, the speedboat smashing just portside of the bow and exploding as sparks ignited the aft fuel tanks. Once more, just as with the cutter, Blancanales felt the heat as wreckage sailed overhead.

  IT TOOK HERMANN SCHWARZ less than a minute to acquire his target.

  The Able Team commando flipped the leaf sight of the M-203 into action as he ducked in front of a large vent protruding from the deck. The vent served more as a blind than cover, and an effective one at that. The numbers ticked away, but Schwarz held steady. His patience paid off. The armed speedboat zipped past, apparently rushing to assist another boat in some kind of action going down forward. He
couldn’t see his teammate from his vantage point, but he could imagine the kind of hell Blancanales was probably giving the new arrivals.

  Schwarz stood, steadied the leaf sight on the freighter railing, quickly assessed wind speed and triggered the M-203. The weapon kicked against his shoulder with the recoil of a 12-gauge, but the results were much more dramatic. The HE M-383 round was superior in design to its predecessors. The RDX/TNT filling was propelled by a standard high-low pressure system, but with increased velocity given the expanded length of the propellant casing. The grenade hit the rear of the speedboat and exploded. The force of the blast decimated the aft section and the superheated gases caused a secondary ignition of the fuel tanks. The aft section suddenly dipped, flipping the lighter front end of the boat skyward. The ignited fuel washed over the helmsman and his gunner, and they screamed as their skin and clothing spontaneously combusted.

  Schwarz didn’t bother with mercy rounds this time—that one was for the crew of the Lockett.

  The sound of movement to his rear caused him to turn and kneel. In the dawn light he made out four figures as they emerged from a hatch set into the aft deck plates. Schwarz went prone as he swung the muzzle of the M-16 A-4 into action. He selected single-shot mode, took a half breath and squeezed the trigger. His first slug connected with the group’s leader. The SS109 hardball round ripped open the man’s neck and blood visibly sprayed from his torn arteries, subsequently dousing his comrades. The swiftness of the assault obviously confused the terrorists, as they reacted by looking in all directions instead of going for cover.

  Schwarz pressed the attack, triggering three more rounds with the precision of a veteran marksman. The second man fell with a double-tap to the chest, the bullets punching neat holes and exiting just as cleanly. They knocked the man off his feet, flipped him into a comrade and both terrorists collapsed to the deck. The third round contacted the last man standing in the chin and blew out the back of his head in a wash of blood and brain matter.