The nightfighter took time to loop the Beretta's lanyard around his neck and to grab two more grenades. Was the sub dead? Could he leave it? He had to get to the supertanker.
But the Executioner knew the U-boat still had those stingers in its forward tubes. She could still swing back in the current and aim herself at the Contessa again. He still had to deliver the coup de grace.
A scraping noise came from the bridge and a shadow appeared, then vanished. Bolan threw a grenade. The small bomb hit inside the tub-like bridge and exploded, bringing a cry of pain that quickly faded into silence. The combatman dropped one more handbomb down the hatch, and as soon as the explosion echoed past him, he hurried down the hole, pulling his bag of arms with him.
The Beretta 93-R preceded him, and he flashed a burst into the room below him even though he saw no target. His rounds brought answering fire from the open passageway that ran through the center of the boat. Bolan sent another half-dozen rounds searching for the gunman. He knew he'd found his target from the deathly scream.
Now he crouched behind a metal bulkhead. He was in the bow compartment where torpedoes were stored over and under eight bunks. In this area the deadly fish were loaded into the tubes and fired. All four torpedo tube doors were closed, probably blown clear of water and ready for a surface-fire command.
Behind him was a water-tight compartment door that was partly open. He pushed the heavy metal door, and as it swung inward he jumped to one side.
A dozen melting lead rounds poured through the opening.
He could see the craft's head to one side and a narrow passage into some quarters with bunks and lockers. The Executioner fired a dozen rounds through the open door and heard a wail.
He was back to house-to-house fighting—clearing every hiding spot as he went. Bolan took another frag grenade from his bag, pulled the pin and threw the bomb through the door. The explosion in the confined space deafened the warrior, but when the hot shrapnel quit zinging, he rushed into the crew quarters and on through to the wardroom and officer's mess.
There was no one alive in either area. Two dead youths, barely out of their teens, were sprawled in a deadly stretching exercise on the floor and over one bunk. Both still clutched handguns.
The bulkhead behind the officer's mess was solid and barred by a metal door. The heavy steel pressure door was hinged to swing away from Bolan.
He slapped a half square of C-4 plastique on the latch side and pushed in a timer-detonator set at thirty seconds.
Bolan started the timer and rushed back into the torpedo room.
Just as he arrived, a man crawled from one of the torpedo tubes. Bolan shot him in the head with the silenced Beretta. A second torpedo-tube cover moved outward.
Bolan rammed it shut and locked it in place, and when he saw a green light glow over the tube, he hit the firing button.
He felt the compressed air slam forward, propelling the terrorist hiding in the tube toward the exterior doors, mashing him into jelly, crushing every bone in his body, then spewing him into the Mediterranean.
Before the hissing of the firing stopped, the whole U-boat shuddered with the massive, ear-killing explosion of the locked water-tight door.
The Executioner shook his head twice after the blast—the concussion had rattled through him like an earthquake through a tree. For a moment he saw double; he closed his eyes tightly. His head cleared and he lifted the machine pistol and ran forward. The door into the commander's quarters and the radio shack hung by a single hinge.
In the radio shack a man with a crewcut held his hands over his ears. His eyes bulged in fear as he saw Bolan. He scratched for the side arm on his right hip. The Beretta coughed three deadly times and eternity swallowed the radioman.
There were no corridors or rooms here as on surface ships, just an open passage down the middle of the boat with living quarters and facilities overlapping. Bolan heard sound coming from the next open hatch.
He knew he should be near the control room under the bridge and conning tower. The sound turned into screaming in Italian. An automatic weapon fired through the door. Bolan ducked behind the bulkhead near the radio shack. When the firing stopped, he leaned around and pushed the Beretta through the opening and emptied a 20-round magazine into the area. He heard glass break, a moan and a long sigh, then a death rattle.
The nightfighter waited for two minutes before he moved. There was no other sound. Slowly he edged around the door. Two men lay on the floor, shirtless and bathed in blood. Each held a grenade, but the pins were still firmly in place.
Bolan charged through the rest of the compartments: the control room, the petty-officer quarters, the galley, the engine room and the electric-motor room. He ran all the way to the torpedo room in the stern and found no one else alive. He walked back to the bow and the forward torpedo room.
A soft scraping overhead at the bow alerted him. Someone was on deck. He climbed through the hatch and saw a man near the bow, working in the water.
The sea sled!
Six rounds from the Beretta cut short the terrorist's escape attempt. His bullet-riddled body floated for a moment, arms swinging with the gentle current, then the face disappeared under the water and a moment later vanished as the mortal remains sank into the sea, there to join the marine food chain.
Bolan looked at the sub, the tool a terrorist had used to capture the big tanker. For just a moment he wanted to open the sea cocks and let the old warrior go to the bottom where she could rest in peace and not be hijacked for any other such mission. He tied his tools in the waterproof bag and slid into the water near the sled. It was not damaged. He put on his tanks and his mask. He would leave the fate of the U boat to the French navy.
Bolan pushed off from the sub, started the sea sled and motored on the surface to the nearest America destroyer in fifteen minutes.
As he was climbing the ladder to the destroy Streib, Bolan found a U.S. Navy commander giving a fifteen-man UDT its final instructions.
The Executioner took off his scuba and listened for a minute. Then, using his parade-grounds bellow he stopped the commander.
"Commander, those men are not going anywhere. You and I need to have a short talk. Now."
The commander jumped, turned. Surprise, followed by anger, flooded his face. He marched to where Bolan stood, his face growing redder by the second.
Ready to explode, he stopped inches from the Executioner. His voice was low but deadly.
"Look, asshole. I don't know who the hell you are, but you don't give me orders on a U.S. Navy ship. Is that damn clear? I'm the ranking naval Officer on this mission."
Bolan laughed softly. "Commander, you were never in command of this ship or this mission. You only thought you were. My name is Colonel John Phoenix, and I am in command here. You have any trouble with that, you talk to Lieutenant Cleater; he is second-in-command when I'm off site. You are excused, Commander, I don't want to see you on deck again." Bolan turned to the frogmen, some of whom wore wide grins.
"Party's over men, no mission. Think of it as a dry run. That maniac over there on the Contessa would blow her up for sure if he saw all of us coming. We're not going to give him an excuse. Not yet. Get unsuited and relax. Lieutenant Cleater is in command here when I'm not on board."
The lieutenant materialized from a passageway, and his young face was serious as he dismissed the men. When he approached Bolan, there was more than a touch of worry in his eyes.
"Sorry, Colonel. He's my senior and came over from the other destroyer. There wasn't anything I could do."
"Forget it. He should be under wraps now. If he isn't, let me know and we'll have him commanding a captain's gig. We've got to move on to phase two now."
The ship's speaker broke in with a transmission.
"This is the new captain of the Contessa. I have a message for you. I know you have attacked my submarine. I can't reach my men there by radio. If any of my people are harmed, I will kill one of the crewmen from the Contessa for each
of my men hurt.
Are you total fools? You say you are cooperating, getting the gold, working on the prisoner freedom—then you attack me!" The voice had risen to a high pitch at the end of the sentence. When the voice continued, there was an even, steady tone that sent a terrible chill through Bolan.
"Remember, if any of my men are killed, I will retaliate by executing the same number of crewmen from this vessel. Your deadline is approaching. Meet my demands, or suffer the ultimate in consequences."
Lieutenant Cleater swore.
"Forget it, Cleater," Bolan said. "There was no way to keep him from finding out he'd lost the U-boat. I've been expecting some kind of retaliation on the hostages. Did you get my packages from Paris?"
The young officer nodded. "Are you really going to try to use it?"
"Yes. It has to work, otherwise you, I and the commander over there will be spending our next five-year hitch cleaning crude oil off the French coastline. Bring everything to the fantail and let's get started."
Bolan had figured that this was the only way to get on board the Contessa undetected. She rose seventy-three feet from waterline to scuppers. It would be a tough go for a mountain climber, or even a top-notch UDT with magnetic climbing handles. No, this way had to work. It was up to Bolan to get onto the tanker and put Lutfi away, without letting him push that little red radio-detonator button.
Bolan nodded to himself. Here he was sitting on millions of dollars worth of guided missiles and rockets and electronic gear, with dozens of top quality Navy fighter planes not far away with air-to ground missiles, yet it all came down to one man who had to go in and do the job.
One man. There was no chance that the military could do it without Lutfi blowing apart the tanker. It was a one-man job.
And he was the man.
7
The next few hours were frantic for Mack Bolan.
He had returned from the submarine just past one in the afternoon and eaten a fast meal.
Lutfi's diatribes continued on the radio, denouncing everyone on earth.
Then he brought out a Contessa crewman and shot him ten times in the chest.
There was no chance he had faked the execution. The destroyer's long-zoom-lens video camera brought the death throes of the seaman to full screen for the video recorder.
Some of the men in the common room thought the execution was fake. Bolan knew better. He had seen too many men die. He went back to the fantail and continued to work on his new weapons.
A fresh demand came through on the radio from Lutfi.
"To the murderers who killed my men. You will pay. First you must pay double in gold—I now demand 400 million. Those of us who work for the freedom of the world's downtrodden people will never forget this criminal act against these heroic freedom fighters. We demand our pound of flesh. One crewman from the Contessa will be executed each hour until darkness. I know you are watching with powerful cameras. Show the world that Lutfi never sleeps, that Lutfi will soon be an international force to contend with, to respect. Yes, to respect."
The nightfighter scowled. One execution an hour. It was nearly four in the afternoon. One, perhaps, two more before dusk.
The Executioner concentrated on the device in front of him. The large package had arrived an hour before he returned from the submarine. He had found willing, experienced volunteers to help him—two sun-splashed youths from California. Soon the full-sized parasail was laid out on deck.
"You've flown one before?" the blond-thatched young sailor asked. Bolan nodded quickly. "Remember, on takeoff be sure to keep the tow rope as tight as you can, and be sure the boat doesn't go too fast, otherwise you're in big trouble. We've used a tow lots of times from a pickup. We had to watch speed most of all. And we never used to tow over ten miles per hour." The youth paused and made sure the harness was attached correctly to the lead lines. "The way I see it, sir, you have only one shot at it. If you don't get enough altitude, or if you spin out and splash down, it'll be hell just finding you out there in that chop."
Those had been the Executioner's thoughts exactly, but there was no other practical way to board the Contessa silently and unobserved. Lutfi was already enraged. One more incident might push him into the most murderous irrationality. Then the creep would forget all his plans and blow up the tanker just for the hell of it.
A few minutes later the parasail was ready for testing.
They let the parachute fill with air, and Bolan hung ten feet off the deck on a tether, flying into the freshening wind. Then he sank gently back to the fantail.
Bolan worked out the method of launch, and he talked with the coxswain of the special powerboat that would pull him.
Jack Grimaldi stood in the background shaking his head. "That thing looks too damn risky, Colonel. I can put you down on the far end of the Contessa all safe and sound. We know I can get you in there and get you out, so why gamble?"
"We can't go in hard, Jack. It's got to be a soft probe for as long as possible. When it goes hard, it goes. Until that time, the more I can find out, and the closer I can come to locating and neutralizing Lutfi and his electronic detonator, the better. I'll make it, Jack. I want you warmed up and ready to come in for support. I'm going to need it. Can you give me a five-minute response time?"
"Right, no sweat. I still. . ." The pilot lifted his arms in resignation and turned away, knowing he could not change Mack's mind.
Before dark they had rehearsed the takeoff three times. Coxswain Tom Mallory piloted the special speedboat, idling it alongside the fantail, then playing out the five hundred feet of tough eighth-inch nylon line until it came tight around the ship's cleat. The twelve-foot aluminum boat was powered by a silent forty-five horsepower electric outboard motor.
Bolan had ordered the motor and batteries with the parasail from Paris. It would move the boat silently and quickly and get Bolan high enough to land on the far end of the Contessa—he hoped.
By the time the last dry run was over it was dark. From the bridge came the word: the Contessa was lighted like a sidewalk carnival on payday. Bolan would have no trouble finding his landing pad.
"Let's do it," the Executioner said. The 93-R hung from the lanyard around his neck. Big Thunder was tied down on his right hip. He wore his blacksuit, combat webbing and a combat pack filled with weapons. On his left hip rode a K-Bar fighting knife. He was going in soft and would maintain it soft as long as possible.
The blond kid from California buckled the night-fighter into the harness.
"Hey, man. Wish I was going with you. Remember, there are no updrafts out there, so whatever altitude you get on the tow is it. You sink or you fly depending on how fast that gig pulls you. Got your flash?"
Bolan nodded.
"One flash toward the gig and he speeds up a knot, which pulls me higher and faster," Bolan said, going over the game plan one final time. "Two flashes and he'll cut back a knot."
Bolan checked his equipment once more, saw that the nylon tow line was securely fastened to the shroud lines and that the line was tight and slack by turns around the cleat.
The boy from California unwrapped the line from the cleat when it was slack, and let it play out slowly over the top of the rail.
Bolan watched the line tighten. Then he blinked the flash one time toward the electrically powered boat.
The sailor watched the line become tight and waved at Bolan. The nightfighter was thirty feet back from the drop-off of the destroyer's fantail. He would walk or run into the wind until he took off.
8
"Go," the kid called.
Bolan felt the rope tighten, urging him forward. He took three steps and sensed a stronger tug on the harness. Two more running steps and he was kicking nothing but air as he soared over the stern at an angle sharper than he had expected.
Before he looked down, the ship was already behind him. The soft Mediterranean night air swept over his body. The sudden ascent slowed, then he climbed gradually. The gig below made a sweeping turn, h
eading for the tanker. Bolan flew into the turn, moving his body, tilting the wing. He needed more altitude.
Less than a half mile ahead he saw the glowing lights of the Contessa and its broad, flat top. Bolan turned on his flashlight, making a long, continual beam. He switched it off. Slowly he felt the increased pressure on the line and knew he was climbing more. His frame of reference was still confused. He could not see the launch below, but he realized he was closer to it, therefore higher. The Contessa's deck was his focal point now. He knew it was seventy-three feet off the water. He had to maintain that much altitude, and one chance was all he had.
The nightfighter estimated the distance again. By this time he was halfway there, less than a quarter mile from the glaring island of steel. More altitude. He pushed the light on again for one long flash. The surge was greater this time, and ahead he saw a searchlight on the tanker begin a computer-programmed search pattern.
The lift carried him higher and higher, and far below he knew the power boat moved with its silent electric motor, but he could neither see it nor hear it.
More than halfway there. They had designed no clever approach; they would drive straight at the tanker and, when almost there, make a sweeping turn. Bolan would use the control lines on one side to dump some of the air and drift in the desired direction. In that manner he could swing well to the side of the powerboat and land on the deck while the boat slipped past the stationary bow.
The searchlight pattern ceased.
The Contessa leaped at him, less than three hundred yards away, he guessed. The boat below began to make the sweeping turn.
He needed to move left. He grabbed the shroud line on the left and tugged it gently. Nothing happened. He pulled it harder, and his stomach jolted as the left side of the chute spilled air. He slipped to that side until the chute filled again.
The Contessa was looming now. She was huge, much bigger looking when night lighted.
Bolan was at least fifty feet over the top of the deck. He would signal to slow down the moment he was over the edge of the tanker.
Executioner 059 - Crude Kill Page 5