Sensor Sweep

by Don Pendleton

  The surface of the deck turned into a wash of reds as terrorist after terrorist fell to the merciless onslaught. As the chopper ceased firing and buzzed by them, Encizo lifted his head in time to see McCarter deliver some kind of special salute. The pilot obviously recognized the gesture and it solidified his place as an ally and not a terrorist in their mind.

  The deck was silent, almost as silent as a cemetery, as the chopper departed. Only the lapping of water against the sides of the freighter could be heard above the occasional moan of the dying terrorists. Encizo had never seen anything quite like it before, but he imagined in some ways it might have looked something like this on the decks of the Higgins Boats in the aftermath of the Normandy invasions.

  McCarter quickly joined him. “Snap out of it, mate. We need to secure this ship, and quick. Head for the bridge, but wait for me to join you before assaulting it.”

  “Where are you going?” Encizo asked.

  “Well, someone has to make sure Cal and T.J. don’t get their bloody heads shot off when coming on board.”

  IT TOOK NO MORE THAN a few minutes for Manning to find a hatch that would get him to the lower decks. As he proceeded for his target he considered the fact that it didn’t seem this boat had been populated by nearly as many terrorists as the other. Not that it mattered. The important thing was that he neutralize the missile, and he’d have to do it quickly.

  A noise ahead caused Manning to go into a combat crouch. He kept the stock of the FN-FAL pressed to his shoulder as he inched forward. It had been a scraping sound, like the kind the sole of a boot makes when someone shifts their weight from one leg to the other. There it was again. Manning froze now, not certain of how to proceed. He double-checked his back, but the corridor remained clear. He had two choices. He could wait it out to see if whoever was up ahead exposed themselves, or he could charge like a madman and hope to take any potential enemy by surprise. After waiting another full minute, Manning decided to risk the latter option.

  The Canadian came to full height and catfooted to the end of the corridor. After counting to himself, he turned the corner in high gear, the muzzle of the FN-FAL held at the ready. The corridor was empty. It terminated at a hatch-style doorway that was slightly ajar. A bright light spilled through the opening, a light much brighter than that produced by the recessed fixtures in the corridor.

  Manning eased himself down the hallway, keeping his back pressed firmly against the smooth iron hull of the freighter. He knew there wasn’t time for a diversion like this, but he didn’t want to get shot in the back while wiring up the launch controls because he’d failed to clear his six. His mission with the monstrosity in the cargo hold could wait a little longer. Manning stopped at the end of the hallway and peered through the crack. He couldn’t see anything from that position other than a metal table in about the center of the room. Manning moved the hatch aside a little more and leaned in farther….

  Manning felt pressure suddenly applied to the harness strap of his LBE and was yanked forward. His weapon scraped against the frame of the hatch as his head smacked the heavy iron door. Stars danced in his eyes as the blow nearly knocked him unconscious, and his right eye stung as blood began to pour from a laceration left by the blow.

  The Phoenix Force commando acted instinctively, grabbing the fist wrapped around his strap with his left hand and turning inward. He stepped backward and heard the satisfying grunt as he yanked his opponent into the door in much the same fashion as had been done to him. Manning had to consider the fact that his opponent had underestimated him, thinking that the first blow would have knocked him cold. Had it not been for his FN-FAL acting as somewhat of a stop jamb, it might have very well done the trick.

  The hold released enough on Manning’s LBE strap that he was able to break free, but he lost his balance in the process. The Canadian turned and scrambled farther into the corridor before getting to his feet to face his opponent. He barely got his eyes on the big, lumbering form that rushed him with a speed that certainly was incredible against the size of his opponent. Manning attempted to draw his .357 Desert Eagle, but he didn’t quite get it pointed before the giant terrorist smacked it out of his hand with relative ease. Pain rocketed through nerves in Manning’s wrist. The Phoenix Force veteran was definitely not dealing with a novice.

  Manning stepped back a moment to size up his opponent, and for the first time he got a good look at him. The guy was huge, at least six foot six, with muscles that bulged beneath his tight black clothes. A goatee was the only facial hair, and a white-gray scar ran from his right eye down to his cheekbone, traveled across the prominence of his nose and terminated on his left check at a point just above his jawline. Dark, glaring eyes stared at Manning. The Canadian didn’t see the slightest indicator that the eyes were human. Purely animal was the man’s look, as though there wasn’t a decent shred of humanity left in him. It was like fighting a horrific beast concocted from the imagination of some Greek playwright.

  The man charged Manning, who sidestepped the attack and fired a punch to the man’s jaw. The blow would have broken most men’s jaws, but it only staggered this guy. He quickly recovered and reached down to wrap a meaty hand around Manning’s throat. It was a simple maneuver, almost too simple to seem real, but it was effective in that it instantaneously cut off his air supply.

  Manning fired a snap kick as his opponent lifted him off the ground, but the man turned sideways. He deflected the kick meant for his groin off his hip. The Phoenix Force commando reached to his belt just behind his left hip and curled his fingers around the Bowie hunting knife he carried with him. He brought the blade free of its sheath and snapped it open, then brought it around in an attempt to slash the hand choking him. The big man grabbed his wrist with his free hand as it came around and effectively neutralized the attack.

  Manning was just about out of options. His right hand was pinned, he couldn’t breathe and his left hand was occupied in trying to ease the pressure of the iron-like fist closed on his throat. In a few more moments his attacker would strangle him to death.

  “Part of what makes a man want to go on living is his spirit,” Katz had told the weary Phoenix Force warriors following a particularly grueling day of training. “Whenever you’re in a situation and you think your life is about to end, you have to call on something more than brawn or brains. You have to call on the spirit and will to live. Look at it as a secret, as something your enemies don’t know about. Don’t abuse it. It may only come to serve you once in your life, maybe twice if you’re lucky. Bolan’s the only man I’ve ever met who can call it almost at will time and again. But it is there, and you can use it if you learn to harness it.”

  Manning realized in that moment that he didn’t want to die, and that if he had wished to die it wouldn’t be at the hands of this maniacal gorilla. No, there were many more days to come of fighting terrorism. Gary Manning was going to live, and he was going to live now!

  In a last-ditch effort to save himself, Manning summoned the last of his strength and used his legs to push himself off the thighs of his opponent with enough force to get his back to the hull. He then dropped his left hand, pressed his palm flat against the wall and swung his right leg up and over his opponent’s right arm. The terrorist’s eyes went wide, puzzled by the Canadian’s sudden and bizarre acrobatics, but Manning knew exactly what he was doing. There was no way that even a man of this size had arms stronger than those well-conditioned thighs built from years of mountain-climbing and hiking. He exerted downward pressure and quickly broke the grasp from his throat.

  Manning sucked in a deep breath and used it to focus all his power into a low back-kick that smashed his opponent’s groin. He then spun onto his backside and executed a leg sweep that knocked the terrorist from his feet and slammed him backward against the hull headfirst. Before the terrorist could recover from the vicious reversal, Manning lunged forward and buried the Bowie knife he was somehow still clutching deep into the terrorist’s throat. The terroris
t let out a scream that died as a bubbling gurgle escaped from around the gaping wound left by the knife.

  Manning stood, retrieved his pistol and pumped two rounds through the terrorist’s chest. He turned and collected his FN-FAL, then continued toward the cargo hold.

  DAVID MCCARTER AND RAFAEL Encizo stood on the bridge and exchanged victory signals when they heard the thumping of charges resound from the cargo hold below.

  Gary Manning had completed the job.

  McCarter kept the bridge crew at bay while Encizo began to power down the freighter’s engines. From that observation point, the Cuban could see James and Hawkins now rounding up the stragglers. The terrorists had thought to put up a fight until they saw the British blockade of ships appear over the horizon on a direct course. A few shots from the heavy guns of one of the advance assault gunships were enough to make the terrorists reconsider their options. One of the destroyers also fired a series of shells from their 114 mm guns that blew massive holes in the aft portion of the ship where they were hiding, killing a number of terrorists.

  When McCarter arrived and told them to surrender, his British accent evident, the terrorists figured he was SAS and decided to surrender. That was okay. He had no problem letting the terrorists think they were with the British Special Air Service, one of the most elite fighting teams in the world and Her Majesty’s greatest option when a full military response wasn’t in order.

  McCarter noticed one of the terrorists staring at him, and the Briton had to take a long hard look before he realized he was staring into the eyes of Jabir al-Warraq.

  “What’s with you, al-Warraq? You have some kind of problem?” McCarter asked him.

  “So, you know who I am,” he said with a smile that under other circumstances McCarter would have sworn was almost pleasant. “How nice. That must also mean that you cannot believe you have ended this war between us. It is only beginning. Don’t you see that? Why, even now, I think you didn’t know that our freighter near the United States was able to successfully launch its missile.”

  McCarter laughed mockingly, not wanting to really believe him but yet somehow knowing deep down that the terrorist leader spoke the truth.

  “Oh, yes, you know it’s true,” al-Warraq said. The man was trying to goad him. “I would say that within approximately ten minutes, there will be widespread death in the city called Dallas. Yes, I would think many people will die.”

  Manning appeared at the door to the bridge. “What’s he talking about?”

  “He’s claiming that they got the missile off and it’s headed toward the Yanks,” McCarter said. “He says it’s going to hit Dallas.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Manning replied. “Ironman wouldn’t let that happen.”

  “Believe it,” Encizo said, holding a headset to his ear. “I’ve just checked a secure channel and it’s true. They’ve scrambled a response team.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Gulf of Mexico

  A pair of F-117 Stealth fighters cruised above the Gulf of Mexico at fourteen thousand feet.

  One of the pilots, Major Janis Brest, considered his craft as he sped to intercept the missile headed toward Dallas. None of the radar systems in the immediate area would be able to track him unless especially equipped to do so. The external skin of the aircraft was predominantly made with aluminum, combined with a special boron-polymer fiber known as Fibaloy, and sheathed with tiles made from radar-absorbing material.

  The entire craft was controlled by a central computer brain and digital flight system manufactured by Lear-Siegler. Brest had engaged his heads-up-display—HUD—in preparation for intercepting the missile. Manufactured by Honeywell, the HUD consisted of a Digital Tactical Display with color CRTs and a full, three-dimensional mapping system.

  Despite public opinion, the F-117 wasn’t strictly confined to a bombing role, although that was its primary purpose. It was a versatile aircraft, and Brest considered he was one of the lucky few able to pilot such a fantastic aircraft. A low beeping sound alerted him that his target was approaching. He flipped two switches to engage the Sidewinder A-A-Ms. He would have preferred a better missile for this kind of mission, but there hadn’t been time. That’s why there were two of them. This mission had to be accomplished. The entire country was counting on them.

  “Foxtrot Seven to Foxtrot Eight, I have the bogie’s signal,” came the voice of his wingman, Lieutenant Colonel Frank Maple. “You got the same over there?”

  “That’s a roger, Seven,” Brest replied. “I mark it at a height of 16,700, point drop of 48 degrees, speed as 800 knots.”

  “That’s an awfully sharp angle, Eight,” Maple replied. The tone of his voice read his insecurity.

  “I copy, Seven, and I agree,” Brest said. “Are you sure the computer can target this baby?”

  Maple chuckled. “See that bogie, she’s in the can…”

  “And if Kaiser can’t hit her, nobody can!” Brest replied, finishing the old saying in reference to the Kaiser Electronics HUD system on board the F-117.

  The two planes accelerated to an attack speed and approach vector that would give them the best opportunity. The mechanical SPN/GEANS Inertial Navigation System provided a 4D view that ensured accuracy. The system would perform exactly as expected. Now all Brest had to do was to make sure he performed exactly as expected.

  “Seven to Eight, engage targeting beacon.”

  Brest switched over from ready to armed, and then set the HUD to begin a long-distance tracking. Of course, it wasn’t really all that far away. Because the Sidewinders were primarily designed for shooting down other planes by locking on an infrared heat signature, they would have to come considerably closer to the target than was normally required. Each one of the missiles was extremely accurate, but they didn’t have the same size window to play with this time around.

  Brest willed himself to relax. He’d just have to play it by ear and trust the computer would do the job.

  “Foxtrot Seven to Foxtrot Eight, I’ve got tone,” Maple said. “Target’s locked and…it’s away!”

  There was silence and Brest kept close to his wingman, his HUD getting closer. They needed confirmation quick, otherwise he wouldn’t get a second chance. They could only allot one missile each for the shot, since once the firing mechanism engaged, the pursuing aircraft would lose hold and need at least thirty seconds to reset it. That could mean the difference between the success and failure of the mission.

  “Foxtrot Eight to Seven, what’s the story?”

  “It’s a miss!” Maple said. “Lock on target and fire! Repeat, lock on target and fire!”

  Brest moved his fighter into position, watching carefully to ensure that Maple pulled back and didn’t get caught in his jet-wash. Sweat began to drip from his forehead but he resisted the urge to take one hand from the targeting HUD to wipe at it. The sweat band in the helmet would prevent it from rolling into his eyes. Brest took a deep breath and waited patiently for his signal. The HUD continued to beep, but it didn’t seem as if he was ever going to find tone.

  Beep…beep…beep…

  “Come on, damn it,” he whispered. “Just a little more…”

  The flashing red light went solid orange, then changed to green.

  “I’ve got tone,” he said as he flipped up the firing switch on the trigger next to the throttle. He depressed the button and held the stick steady, fighting any urge to move his eye away from the targeting sight. “It’s away,” he cried.

  The light remained green in his scope, locked solid then a moment later it winked out. Brest pulled his eye away from the targeting HUD and pulled up even as he saw the bright flash light up the night.

  “Seven to Eight, you hit it! You hit it!”

  Brest let out a sigh of relief. He had saved his country from his enemies and averted a terrorist disaster. There wouldn’t be any medals given out for it. At least, nothing they could put in the official records. But as he turned his ship and headed for home, Brest wondered
how many others had known about it. And he wondered how many others were out there right at that very moment, sacrificing their lives for the country.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Cancun, Mexico

  Carl Lyons managed to catch up to the motor launch as it docked at a small marina on the outskirts of the city.

  The Able Team warrior felt odd having left his companions behind, but he couldn’t worry about that now. This was between Lyons and whoever he was pursuing. Whoever had escaped the freighter was probably responsible for launching the missile, and quite possibly a high-ranking official in the Qibla terror group. Lyons couldn’t be certain, but it was possible he was chasing Jabir al-Warraq or Mahmed Temez. If that was true, he would have been negligent not to pursue them.

  As he neared the boat, Lyons saw the reflection of light on metal. He turned a sharp right and was nearly thrown from the boat. The maneuver saved his life as a single shot rang out. Somebody was lying prone in the motor launch and trying to gun him down. Obviously it wasn’t a skilled sniper he was dealing with because whoever was shooting at him didn’t know the first thing about the importance of cover and concealment, or of making sure to hit the target with the first shot.

  Lyons started to move the boat away from the motor launch but then thought better of it. He had learned a long time ago that sometimes the most effective move against an enemy was the one they least expected. Lyons kicked the motor into high gear and rushed the motor launch. The sniper was startled, jumping to his knees and shooting at the raft in hopes of deflating it before his opponent could reach him.