Sensor Sweep

by Don Pendleton

  “I THINK WE’RE GOING to have a real problem on our hands, mates,” David McCarter said. “I was just talking to Hal, and he tells me that a British blockade is on the move. Jack confirmed it through some military channels he was monitoring.”

  The men sitting around the table aboard the Gulfstream C-20 let out a chorus of moans and groans. It had been one big nightmare trying to sort through all of the details of the first freighter with the British and American forces, and now it looked as if they were about to jump right into an identical situation. One thing they couldn’t do in an assault was predict how any military force would respond to a perceived threat on the security of its nation. It not only endangered their operations, but it increased the risk of something going very wrong. They had nearly had their heads blown off in the Mediterranean. As if that wasn’t bad enough, they now faced the potential of an entire naval blockade armed to the teeth and ready for a fight.

  “If the British are given the green light to fight it out,” Manning said, “they will most likely respond with a force equal to the task of blowing that freighter clean out of the water.”

  “Which also brings the inherent risk of potentially releasing toxic chemicals into the environment,” Encizo reminded them all.

  “Not to mention the publicity,” James added. “Can you imagine seeing that one on television? The press would have a field day with it.” He sat up straight, mocking a television announcer, and said, “Today the British navy blew a commercial freighter in the Atlantic to bits. We don’t know why yet, but we’ll have the full story and film at eleven.”

  “So the PM plans to sink this freighter?” Hawkins asked.

  “He’s the only chap holding them back, mate,” McCarter replied. “I believe the words that Hal used were ‘if they suspect an imminent threat, they will respond.’”

  “I can’t believe it,” James said. “We’ve come this far and now they’re talking about doing the very the thing we’re trying to prevent. Why don’t they just back off and let us do our job?”

  “Does anybody here suppose that this is possibly what the terrorists wanted to happen?” Manning said.

  McCarter furrowed his brow.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, let’s assume that they never figured to get these missiles off. Nobody has fired a shot and yet they already have major governments quibbling with one another, and everyone’s ramping up to deliver hellfire and brimstone if anybody so much as performs a course correction. I understand that the request from the White House to investigate those other freighters near Australia turned into a first-rate fiasco. Apparently the shipping company started asking all kinds of uncomfortable questions of the Aussie government, and so far nobody wants to take the blame for detaining a commercial shipment.”

  “Well, whatever the political situation is right now, we can’t make that our problem,” Encizo said. “We need to stick to the plan and finish this mission, British blockade or no British blockade.”

  He looked to McCarter, who nodded a grateful acknowledgment.

  “Well?” Encizo asked.

  “Well what?” McCarter replied.

  “What’s the plan?”

  “Well, we were thinking we’d have to try for another topside landing, but it seems we might get lucky. The ship has shifted from a north to northeasterly heading.”

  “She’s changed course?” Hawkins asked.

  McCarter nodded.

  “Most likely they figured out they weren’t going to get past the British blockade and decided on an alternate course of action,” Manning said.

  The demolitions expert turned to the nearby computer terminal and punched up the tracking system on the keyboard. McCarter moved to his side and the two men studied the freighter’s movements. Manning began to type into the keyboard and McCarter watched the Canadian with a newfound admiration. It appeared he knew a bit more about computer systems than he’d let on.

  “Look at you go,” James observed.

  “I was just thinking that myself,” McCarter said over his shoulder. He looked at Manning again. “You been sneaking down to the Annex at nights, mate?”

  The Canadian grinned. “The Bear’s been giving me extra homework, and I’ve had a few extra lessons on the side from Carmen and Akira. That last class we had in 3-D cartography kind of piqued my interests some.”

  “That’s our Gary,” Hawkins teased, although McCarter detected some pride in his tone. “Always the strategist, he is.”

  “So, what are you doing now?”

  “I’m mapping possible new coordinates based on direction and speed,” Manning said. “There’s nothing that seems to be a viable target in this area, near as I can tell. Their present direction can only take them one place, and that’s into the northern region of the Bay of Biscay.”

  “What are the ports there?” James asked.

  “Concarneau, Lorient and Carnac,” McCarter responded, reading from the screen.

  “Maybe they figure it’s a lost cause,” Hawkins suggested. “Maybe they’re going to try to abandon the freighter and get lost in France.”

  “Not likely,” Manning said. “I don’t see them operating that way. No, whoever planned this operation is bold, real bold. They’ll continue with their mission no matter what it costs. I think they’ll try to use the area to put heavy shipping traffic between themselves and the blockade.”

  McCarter nodded his agreement. “Agreed. It’s sure as hell what I’d do if I were in their bloody situation.”

  “The other thing about this strategy is that it still puts them close enough to their target,” said Manning. “The northern shoreline of the bay is only 267.2349 nautical miles from Portsmouth, according to the computer, which is well within the range capabilities of that missile.”

  “They want to make it a sure thing,” Encizo remarked.

  “They can’t afford not to,” Hawkins said. “We’ve already taken out one of them, and chances are better than good that Able Team will hit the second before they have a chance to unload their missile. The way the Qibla probably view it, this is their last chance.”

  “And we aren’t going to give it to them,” McCarter said, making the determination evident in his voice. “Gear up. We’ll do a flyby and have Jack bring us down at the nearest landing site. I’ll contact the Farm and have them make contact with someone who can get us watercraft. We’ll make our assault that way.”

  And the men of Phoenix Force began to prepare for battle once more.

  THE FACT STONY MAN had contacts in every nook and crevice of the world wasn’t more evident than when the men of Phoenix Force arrived on the French island of Belle-Île. Grimaldi had managed to get them into the Belle-Île en Mer Airfield near Quiberon, and an island resident, a retired American who used to work for the Pentagon, shuttled them to the home of a friend who had a boat-rental company.

  The man’s house sat on stilts above the waters of the marina, and beneath the house was a makeshift dock. The Frenchman pulled back a massive tarpaulin to reveal two large speedboats. They were sleek and polished, with powerful engines built into the aft sections. The boats were powerful enough to require twin exhaust pipes out the back. At first viewing, the eyes of most of the Phoenix Force warriors popped from their heads.

  Hawkins let out a whistle. “Very nice.”

  “Oh, my American friends, these are the finest boats on the island,” the Frenchman bragged. “They are very fast and quite dependable. I think that you will have no problems.”

  McCarter stared the man in the eye. “Do you have any idea what we want them for?”

  “Er…” The man looked uncertainly at Phoenix Force’s liaison, an overweight bear of a man named Krabowsky.

  “He doesn’t know and doesn’t need to know,” Krabowsky said. “Your people already took care of compensating him well.”

  “Good,” McCarter said. “Because I can’t guarantee what sort of condition he’ll get them back in.”

  “Oh, not
to worry, sir,” the boat dealer said, showing the Phoenix Force crew a mouthful of gold teeth. “My friend Krabowsky is correct. I have been paid more than enough to replace them if they are not returned in good shape.”

  “They may not be returned at all, pal,” James said as he dropped into the nearest boat and began to study the controls.

  “Mr. Smith, you’ll pilot this boat,” McCarter told James. He turned to Encizo, “Mr. Gomez, you take the other.”

  Encizo nodded and went to it. McCarter shook hands with the Frenchman and Krabowsky, then dropped into the boat piloted by Encizo. Manning was on board with him, while Hawkins boarded with James. The two boat pilots got their bearings and quickly familiarized themselves with the controls, then Encizo led the way out of the dock with James closely on his tail. As they powered smoothly out of the marina, keeping their speed low to avoid attracting the attention of police patrol boats, McCarter looked over Manning’s shoulder as the Canadian continually monitored the progress of the freighter.

  “Where is it?” McCarter asked.

  “Close,” Manning replied. “We almost missed them.”

  “Well, these boats seem pretty bloody fast to me, mate. We ought to be able to catch up with them quickly.”

  “It’s not catching up with them that has me worried,” Manning replied. “It’s what we do once we get there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s safe to assume we’ll run into the same level of resistance as we did before. There won’t be any second chances on this one. And that blockade is getting close, too. We can only hope they’ll hold back until we’ve had a chance to neutralize the threat.”

  McCarter clapped his friend on the shoulder. “It’s like I told you before, mate. We can’t worry about the political ramifications. We need to shut this thing down any way we can. It’s no rules now. We’re going to have to hit them and hit them hard. This one counts like it’s never counted before.”

  As soon as the powerboats had cleared the no-wake zone of the marina, Encizo threw the boat into high gear and opened the throttle full. Sure to the Frenchman’s promise, the boats accelerated and began cruising across the water, bouncing through the choppier parts with their noses pointed skyward at nearly a forty-five-degree angle. McCarter felt the rush of sea air against his face and the saltiness stung his eyes, causing them to water.

  After about twenty minutes they could make out the freighter’s distinct lines on the horizon. They would be within striking range in about five minutes. A quick survey of the area revealed the British blockade was nowhere to be seen, which meant that they were just ahead of the game.

  McCarter double-checked the action of his 9 mm Browning Hi-Power pistol secured in shoulder leather beneath his left armpit, then brought the MP-5 into battery. Manning had already turned to a similar procedure, first checking Encizo’s weapon for him and passing it to the Cuban with a nod of assurance, then attending to his own weapon. For this encounter, he’d brought an extra bit of firepower packed with the Fabrique Nationale FAL battle rifle. A rugged, dependable weapon, it had long been a popular choice among all the members of Stony Man for various reasons. The Belgium-made assault rifle was chambered to fire the heavy 7.62 mm NATO round, and was probably one of the most successfully designed rifles in small arms manufacturing history. A product of its time with distribution in over fifty-five countries, the FN-FAL was extremely rugged, reliable under the most stringent conditions and could dispense its heavy-caliber slugs at a muzzle velocity exceeding 850 mps. Manning had first developed his tremendous respect for the weapon while serving as an RCMP officer.

  “White Lightning to White Four,” McCarter called into his radio.

  “White Four, here,” Hawkins answered.

  “You guys pull ahead. Put as much heat on them as you can, mate, until we can find a way aboard.”

  “Roger, wilco, White Lightning.”

  “White Lightning out, here.” McCarter keyed off and said to Manning, “Get ready.”

  Before they had even reached the freighter they could see muzzle-flashes winking from the railings. At least ten terrorists were standing at the portside rail, near the bow of the ship, and putting out a heavy firestorm of lead. McCarter and Manning opened up with their assault weapons in reaction, actually knocking a couple of the terrorists out on their first pass. At the last moment before they reached the bow, Encizo cut a hard right and headed for the starboard side while James continued on a straight course.

  There was a brief moment of eerie silence from either side, and suddenly a massive ball of flame rolled skyward from the deck, followed a moment later by the thunderclap of an HE M-383 grenade.

  McCarter and Manning watched as the starboard side went by at a blinding speed. They both looked to Encizo to try to understand what the Cuban was doing, and why he hadn’t chosen to stop, but it didn’t look as if he was planning to come to a boarding point on this pass. It took McCarter only a second to deduce what was going through Encizo’s mind. He was doing a sweep, checking to make sure that when he found a point on this side for them to board, they wouldn’t get cut in two by terrorists just waiting for them to try something like that. McCarter had to admit that the Cuban’s savvy was admirable.

  Encizo traversed the entire starboard side, then moved past the wake of the freighter before making a hard turn and heading back toward the boat. There were a few ladder rungs built into the side of this particular vessel, which the team could use when they decided to storm the ship. It looked as if Encizo was about to make another complete run when suddenly he stopped the engine and brought the boat clanking roughly against the side of the freighter, the noise just coming to rest below an access ladder.

  “Go!” McCarter shouted, but Manning was already in motion.

  The Canadian stepped onto the nose of the boat, nearly slipped and fell into the depths, but quickly reached out and caught a handhold on the railing. He fired a harsh look in Encizo’s direction.

  “Sorry,” the Cuban said sheepishly. “I’m trying to keep her steady.”

  Manning dismissed the irritation and vaulted up the ladder, McCarter right on his heels. Encizo moored the boat against the freighter by tying off a good strong knot against the lowest ladder rung, then put his foot up to climb. The unmistakable clack of a bolt chambering a round drew his attention. Encizo quickly located the source and found himself in the gun sights of a Qibla terrorist on the deck.

  In a moment frozen in time Rafael Encizo could see the terrorist smile behind the rifle and his finger begin to tighten on the trigger….

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Caribbean Ocean

  Carl Lyons wasn’t sure how he did it, but he somehow managed to avoid being cut in two by a swathing blast of terrorist gunfire while preventing a similar fate for his two friends. The Able Team leader yanked on their sleeves and dragged them down as a plethora of assault-rifle fire buzzed over their heads like a swarm of angry hornets. Rounds ricocheted off the walls and ceiling, and a cacophony of deafening reports echoed through the narrow corridor.

  Rosario Blancanales seemed to recover from the assault with the reaction of a seasoned pro. Even as Lyons watched with horrific realization, he knew he couldn’t do anything to stop his crazy friend. It seemed like he watched Blancanales’s finger curve around the trigger of the M-203, but he couldn’t do a thing. His legs and arms seemed paralyzed and while his mind screamed out all of the possibilities such a drastic move might bring, he still couldn’t seem to do anything but open his mouth and scream the first obscenity that came to his mind.

  The plunk of the grenade leaving the launcher could be heard even above the report caused by ignition of the propellant charge. The grenade struck the wall just to the right of the terrorists. A terrific explosion followed as heat and smoke whooshed over the heads of Able Team. The corridor rocked with the blast, dust and gases expanding at a rate much faster than the narrow passageway could handle. The concussion alone burst the eardrums of th
e terrorists not directly exposed to the blast, which Lyons figured to only number about two. The rest of the group was decimated.

  The only thing that didn’t die in the hallway was the steady thrumming of the missile launcher and the cargo bay door. Lyons shook his head to clear it, then he and Blancanales helped Schwarz get to his feet, as he’d been the closest to the blast and the one most exposed to its effects. Lyons immediately noted with concern the watery blood leaking from his friend’s right ear.

  Schwarz noticed his friend looking at him and reached up his hand to come away with the sticky substance. Blancanales stepped over to him and quickly inspected his ear. After about a full minute, he slapped Schwarz on the back.

  “Thought maybe you’d ruptured an eardrum,” Pol said with a wry grin. “Does it hurt?”

  Schwarz shook his head.

  “Well, I’d suspect some trauma to the outer ear. I think the eardrum’s still intact.”

  “Good,” Lyons interjected. “And while I just hate to be the bearer of bad news, that missile’s still intact, too. We need to stop this now.”

  The three men agreed and turned to start for the cargo hold, but at the last second they realized they wouldn’t be able to safely pass through the smoke and flames left by Blancanales’s handiwork.

  “Well, can’t get there that way,” Lyons said.

  “Now what?” Schwarz asked.

  Blancanales’s expression appeared to brighten and he patted the M-203. “Hey, if they’re opening that top hatch, we could go back the way we came and access it from there. I can put that launch pad out of commission easily with one well-placed grenade.”

  “Uh-uh,” Lyons snapped. “No way, no how. We can’t risk exposing ourselves to the chemical loaded in that warhead. Not to mention the fact that the top deck of this freighter is probably crawling with terrorists. We’ll have to find another way to the cargo hold.”

  “Let’s go this way, then,” Schwarz said, pointing in the opposite direction.