Lutfi smiled.
He was now only one giant step away from his goal—ultimate power.
Two HOURS AFTER SUNRISE the German U-boat had maneuvered to within half a mile of the tanker Contessa. Lutfi lifted his brows when he saw the SUCC through the periscope. He could not believe the size of it. He swung the glass in search of his first target.
For three hours the U-boat waited for a victim. Then at last it came, a small 20,000-ton "ferry" tanker heading for the Contessa to begin the job of off-loading 200,000 tons of crude into the port of Toulon and directly into the refinery tanks.
"Your target, Captain," Lutfi said, turning the periscope over to Carlo. The young Italian reversed his cap and draped his arms over the extended silver handles as he turned the tube, following the small tanker.
"Flood all tubes forward," the captain said. "Connect the target-position calculator. Firing will be from the bridge."
The man at the calculator in the conning tower followed the orders.
"Enemy position, starboard bow, angle fifty. Enemy speed, five knots, range, 200 meters. Torpedo speed, thirty. Depth at ten."
Carlo did not have to worry about the proper lead angle for the torpedo; that was the job of the calculator, which was connected directly with the gyrocompass and the TBT column along with the torpedoes. Every change in the boat's course was automatically translated to the torpedoes. Carlo merely had to keep the target in the cross hairs of the glass on the TBT column.
"Connect tubes one and two," Carlo shouted.
The long black cigar of the submersible hung nearly motionless in the emerald green of the Mediterranean.
Then Carlo nodded. "Fire one," he thundered.
The throbbing came through the hull as the compressed air slammed the torpedo out of its tube. The U-boat lifted slightly when the 2,000-pound fish shot into the sea.
"One away!" the shout came from the forward tubes through the open companionways.
Carlo could see the wake of his fish slanting through the water, leaving a telltale line of bubbles.
Carlo pulled away and motioned Lutfi to the periscope. For a moment Lutfi saw nothing, then the wave subsided and he picked out the small tanker three hundred yards from the massive ship. The entire side of the small tanker suddenly erupted. Large chunks of metal and plates shot into the sky.
A billowing, flaming secondary explosion shook the ship.
Smoke and flames covered the craft from bow to stern. She rolled toward the hidden killer, broke in two and sank under the smoke-choked waves.
A burning oil slick two hundred yards square raged where the ship had been.
"Direct hit. Good shooting," Lutfi said, coming away from the glass. "She broke in two and sank within sixty seconds," he announced.
A cheer went up from the men in the U-boat. Lutfi went to the radio shack, a small open area directly across from the commander's open quarters.
"You've been monitoring the Contessa's radio transmissions," he said to the dark clean-shaven youth.
"Yes, sir. We have their frequency. We're ready to transmit at any time."
"Bring her up, Carlo. I want Captain Running to see us. Keep your bow aimed straight at the middle of the Contessa."
Lutfi picked up the microphone and pushed the talk button.
"This is Hunter calling the Contessa. Calling the Contessa. Can you hear me? Over." Lutfi spoke in English now, with a faint British accent to the words.
Lutfi let up on the Talk button and listened. He was ready to repeat the call when an excited voice answered.
"Yes, this is the Contessa. Who is calling?"
"This is the Hunter, the submarine that's surfacing 500 meters off your port side." He felt the U-boat break the surface. "Check to port and look at us before you reply."
There were ninety seconds of dead air, then the receiver came to life, a voice crackling with anger.
"Yes, I see you. This is the Contessa's captain speaking. Are you the murderers who just killed fifteen fine men? Did you sink the Crude Lady? You'll all hang for this. I'll see to that personally."
Lutfi pushed the talk button and chuckled. "Captain Running, you must learn to control your emotions. It is a sign of weakness. You're lucky—it could have been the Contessa we fired at instead of the small tanker. You could be the one swimming in a sea of burning crude. I have instructions, I have orders for you.
"Captain Running, you and your ship, the Contessa, are now under my control. If you do not do as I tell you, your ship will be torpedoed. My gunners have their fingers on the fire buttons of four torpedoes at this very moment. Any attempt to attack my vessel will result in the immediate firing of those four lethal weapons. Is that clear, Captain?"
"You would never do it. You wouldn't spill all this oil.... "
"Just the way I wouldn't sink that small tanker? I can and I will blow you out of the water, Captain Running. I win either way. Now, are you ready to listen to reason?"
"What is your price?"
"Your ship, Captain Running."
"No."
"You give her up to my prize crew, or we sink her here and now."
"We have a torpedo deflection net. You can't hurt us."
"Bravado, Captain. It's the same net that protected the Crude Lady and it will protect you about as well. Lower your captain's gig into the water at once and send her to pick up me and my crew at this submarine. You will lower your boarding ladder and float and prepare to receive my crew. Or we will sink you and spread a million and a half tons of crude along the shores of all countries around the Mediterranean. The choice, the responsibility, for the decision, is yours, Captain Running."
"There are destroyers racing toward your position at this second," Running said in desperation. "I can't stop them."
"If you don't stop them, Captain Running," Lutfi said, "I'll fire my torpedoes in exactly thirty seconds. In case they're not monitoring this transmission, you had better warn them away at once. You now have twenty-five seconds."
Lutfi yelled toward the bridge where he had sent Carlo.
"Carlo, do you see any destroyers nearby?"
"Yes, sir. One, but she's slowing, turning now, sharply. She's stopping, well off."
Lutfi smiled. It had worked. Planning. Planning, experts, and guts of steel, that's all it took. The captain would give up his ship. He had no other choice. The destroyers would keep their distance, they had no other choice.
Lutfi had planned it that way.
6
The telephone rang only once in Mack Bolan's room in the French officers' barracks near Marseille before he answered it. At once he was fully awake, and knew who was speaking after the first two words.
"Colonel Phoenix, you were right. Lutfi has just taken command of the Contessa."
The nightfighter began pulling on clothes as he listened to a brief version of how Lutfi captured the largest tanker in the world.
"He's on board her now, Perkins?"
"Yes. First he threatened to torpedo the tanker. Then once aboard he claims he put a thousand pounds of C-4 plastique at various spots around the Contessa. If anyone attempts to attack him or try to retake the Contessa, he will detonate the bombs and blow the tanker apart. He says he will trigger all the C-4 bombs at once with a radio controlled detonator. The slightest pressure on a red button will do the job."
Bolan grunted. "So what the hell are we doing about this? Where's the field general headquarters on this mission? Where are you?"
"I'm at our Paris embassy. The headquarters down there are on the U.S. destroyer Streib, which is standing a half mile off the Contessa. I've had orders from my director that you are to handle this affair for the United States, carte blanche."
"I'm moving."
"I've arranged for an assault helicopter for you there at Marseille. No U.S. choppers are available and this one is the best the French have. They call it the Sauterelle, the Grasshopper."
"Roger, Perkins. I'll want some equipment from you. I'll radio the list t
o you once we're airborne. These items I want within a few hours. No substitutes, no excuses. Probably get them right here in Marseille. Chopper them out to the Streib. Out."
Bolan had dressed in a one-piece black skinsuit. He pounded on Grimaldi's door and found the pilot already dressed. Jack took one look at the blacksuit and grabbed his hat.
"Must be cooking," Grimaldi said. Bolan filled him in as they ran outside and caught a jeep to the flight line.
Five minutes later they were in the air. The French chopper had good firepower: rocket pods, all loaded, twin-mounted machine guns, grenade launchers and a front-firing 40mm cannon. The bird was big enough to hold twelve fully armed troopers. A French pilot lifted her off, but after two minutes in the air, Grimaldi had been checked out and was flying the bird.
Bolan had worked out his supply list and radioed it to the American Embassy by a land-line linkup through the French base. He gave Perkins the list and signed off.
Ahead they saw the small flotilla, the huge tanker, two destroyers circling her, two other destroyers hovering a half mile away, and a smudge on the emerald green Mediterranean sea that was long, black and low in the water.
Grimaldi set down the chopper on the landing pad of a U.S. destroyer, and the warrior hurried to meet a U.S. Navy full lieutenant and two French officers. All three saluted.
"Colonel Phoenix, sir. Lieutenant Cleater. We understand you're in charge of this operation. If you wish, I can brief you on developments within the past two hours." He introduced the two Frenchmen.
"Thanks, Cleater. Let's keep it informal. Have the hijackers made any demands yet?"
"Yes, sir. This way, please. We have it on tape." They went to the bridge where a seaman punched up a tape recording of the hijacker's demands.
"Attention, France, England, and America. This is the new captain of the Contessa . I have complete control of the ship. I have a submarine ready to torpedo this oil factory at a moment's notice and, also, I have strategically placed a thousand pounds of plastic explosive in vital areas of the tanker. I can blast the ship apart and spew a million and a half tons of crude oil all over your coastlines.
"This is what I demand. One: you will make no attempts to recover this vessel. Two: within eighteen hours you will deliver 200 million U.S. dollars worth of pure gold. Three: you will release the forty-two political prisoners I have listed in a dispatch now available at the U.S. Embassy in Paris. Four: you will make no attempt to interfere with my team's departure, or to board the Contessa for twelve hours after we leave. If you board the vessel before that time, she will be blown into a dozen pieces. I will expect your response within two hours."
The tape ended and the Executioner scowled. "He doesn't want much." There was a pause. "The submarine, is it a World War II German U-boat?"
Lieutenant Cleater nodded. "From what we can see it's one of the later models made near the end of the war, with a few alterations. We've had a high-resolve zoom lens on it since we arrived. It looks like a museum piece straight out of 1945."
"No special radar or underwater detection gear?" "None we can see sir."
One of the French officers shook his head. "My government requires the strictest of compliance with the terrorist's demands so the oil is not released."
"Tell him anything you want to," Bolan said. "The diplomacy end of it is your job. The man on the Contessa is called Lutfi. He's a gambler. His threats to torpedo the Contessa are a bluff. He won't blow up the tanker as long as he is still on board. Now, we'll take out the sub first."
"We can furnish you with a ten-man underwater demolition team," Lieutenant Cleater said.
Bolan shook his head. "No thanks. A ten-man team would be too easy to spot. I'll go in alone. Cleater, do you have an underwater electric sled?"
Cleater nodded an affirmative.
"Bring it on deck. Has that chop developed yet? It was supposed to kick up a little by noon."
"Light chop, sir. A few whitecaps showing."
"Good. Get me a wet suit, a water-tight carrying bag for arms and grenades, some side arms and extra magazines for my Beretta. I'll also need two cubes of C-4 plastique. Let's move. I'd say Lutfi has a few surprises planned for us long before his eighteen hour deadline is up."
"What do we do about his demands, sir?" Lieutenant Cleater asked.
"Follow through. Pass it along to the diplomats and tell the bankers to start getting the gold together. Get the negotiations on the prisoners under way, and get some commercial-radio newscasts planted with stories. Handle it however you want to, but don't give him the gold. We are in French waters. I'll leave the diplomacy up to the three of you."
Twelve minutes later Mack Bolan slid into the cool waters of the Mediterranean. He sank beneath the light chop and tested his scuba gear. Then he touched the underwater sled's On button and felt the sled surge forward, silently towing him along at three knots. The sled was an ES-Mark 4, an experimental model the Navy was using on field testing. It was nothing but a large tube with handles on the side. The tube was eight inches in diameter and three feet long, packed with high-energy electric batteries and an eight-inch multibladed propeller that churned the water silently but produced almost no bubbles. It was painted a sleek gray and was hard to spot in the sea.
The American combatman had not consciously outlined an attack plan. He knew what had to be done, so he would do it. In a small soft-plastic bag tied to a loop in his black wetsuit he carried the two quarter pounds of C-4 plastique. He would use them first.
On the half-mile trip Bolan saw a few big fish in the clear waters, but no sharks. He passed through a school of six-inch-long darters that looked like sea perch; there were thousands of them.
He surfaced once, barely letting his face break into the air, to check his direction. The sub was a few degrees to his left, now no more than three hundred yards away. He saw a sentry pacing the forward deck. Bolan ducked underwater and turned on the sled again.
The sleek black hull of the steel-plated sub materialized in front of him. He had forgotten how small these old boats were.
He turned off the sled and felt no current. Good. Bolan again switched on the sled and powered along side the U-boat to the large rudder and the shiny brass propellers at the stern. Both were still as the craft rolled slightly on the surface.
Bolan quickly took half of one of the blocks of C-4 and mashed it against the shaft just behind the propeller, then did the same to the other one.
He inserted a waterproof pencil timer-detonator in each one, set them both for two minutes and pushed the start slides.
Bolan powered the sled, and moved away from the stern toward the bow of the U-boat, away from the upcoming blast. With both propellers blown off the shafts, the pigboat would be dead in the water, unable to maneuver into firing position. All she would be able to do then was float with the tide or sink.
The numbers were coming down fast now. Bolan edged toward the surface. He hit the side of the U-boat and pulled his head out of the water five seconds before the blast. He did not want to lose his eardrums from the underwater concussion.
The explosion rippled at him through the hull, which he held for support. The force rocketed through the water and he felt it all over his body.
When the last shock waves had passed, he submerged the sled to just below the surface, waiting for a reaction on board.
Bolan unhooked the waterproof sack from the sled, tied the craft to the hydroplanes, and got out of the scuba gear and tanks, which he tied to the sled. He saw no one on board. Where was the sentry?
He pushed the bag of tools up the sloping side of the sub's bow and scrambled after it. When he reached the heavy antenna line, he pulled himself higher on the wet plates, clearing Big Thunder, the silver .44 AutoMag, from its waterproof bag as he did so.
The sentry came running from the stern, evidently returning from investigating the explosion. He was wide-eyed, carried his rifle carelessly, and moved toward the open forward hatch. They saw each other at the same t
ime. Bolan lifted the minicannon and fired before the terrorist could shoulder his rifle. The heavy lead slug caught the guy in the chest. The slug pushed two ribs through the guy's heart as it turned sideways, ripping lungs apart before exiting out the back.
The body jolted sideways, sprawling facedown. The automatic rifle hit the deck, skittered to one side and slid into the green blue waters.
Bolan's attention turned to the torpedo loading hatch. It was open. He saw a head appear, then duck out of sight. Before Bolan could react, a man leaned out of the hatch with an automatic rifle in his hands and blazed away in unaimed frenzy.
Bolan's .44 spoke twice, slamming twin death messengers at the terrorist, pulverizing his right eye, pulping brain tissue and gray matter.
A figure on the bridge chattered off six shots from an automatic, but all the lead missed the nightfighter who had rolled once and come up in a two-fisted position to hammer two lead widowmakers into the gunman's neck, snapping his spine.
A hand reached from below to close the hatch cover. Bolan jerked up the Beretta 93-R machine pistol and coughed three silent rounds into the hand, splattering fingers against the unyielding metal. A scream billowed through the Mediterranean morning.
Before the wet-suited black figure could move down the submarine deck, a round object soared from the hatch and bounced toward him. With a combat veteran's instinctive reaction, Bolan swiped at the incoming grenade as he would a handball, slapping it into the water where it exploded harmlessly. Even before the sound echoed away, the Executioner was on his feet, charging the hatch, with two grenades ready, pins pulled.
He dropped both grenades down the U-boat torpedo-loading hatch.
The twin explosions came as one, spewing hot shrapnel and smoke from the opening.
Then all was quiet.
Bolan checked the bow of the ship killer. It had swung in the current and no longer aimed its death fish at the huge tanker.
Bolan edged up to the side of the torpedo loading hatch, thrust his head over the void to steal a look below and pulled back sharply. He saw only the mangled, shredded remains of a man.
Executioner 059 - Crude Kill Page 4