War Tactic

by Don Pendleton

  “G-Force!” he called, pressing his transceiver against his ear. “Come in! What are you doing?”

  There was still no reply. McCarter had thought perhaps something about the structure of the ship had interfered with their signal, perhaps depending on where Grimaldi was positioned relative to McCarter and James. But now, on the deck, with line of sight to the chopper, he still could not raise a signal. What the bloody hell was going on?

  “David,” said James in his earbud, “I’ve got eyes on them. They’re hiding behind a railing about five meters from the bow. The area just to the left of the gray tarp. I’m seeing some grappling hooks, too. Looks like not all the pirates were blown up when we took out that first launch.”

  “Makes sense,” McCarter responded. “The rats found the nearest sinking ship.”

  Just then, another set of explosions rocked the damaged Filipino vessel. McCarter was drenched once more with spray. What he saw, when he looked to the sea once more, was bewildering for a moment. Grimaldi was still strafing the water and sowing the waves with 40 mm grenades. Then there was yet another explosion, bigger than what a grenade or even a series of grenades going off could create.

  That cheeky bastard, McCarter thought. He’s detonating whatever those submersible torpedo weapons are. He’s keeping them off us.

  There was no way to explain what was interfering with his communications with the chopper, but Grimaldi was obviously alive and doing fine…or as fine as a man could do while taking fire in a combat zone. There was small-arms fire coming from the second motor launch, the one that survived, and that boat was now making fast circles well wide of the Filipino ship. The idea, McCarter imagined, was to keep the launch out of range of the Filipino ship’s guns and to avoid becoming a target for the Sikorsky.

  McCarter tried to gauge just how many men might be aboard that launch. It couldn’t be that many, given the boat’s size. If the fast-attack boat had carried a limited payload of Thorn rockets, that might explain why the crew had turned to whatever those torpedo-like devices were. He made a note to scan back through his dossier in the Farm’s mission brief to look for other technical specs on RhemCorp weaponry. So far, the Thorns were the only ones that had been used in previous attacks, and thus those were the only ones McCarter had bothered to familiarize himself with.

  A shipment of rockets was one thing; weapons could go missing, and frequently did, when they were shipped overseas. But if the pirates were equipped with a full array of RhemCorp’s catalog, that looked very bad for Harold Rhemsen and his company.

  None of which made a damned bit of difference right now, McCarter considered as the ship on which he was currently taking fire might sink out from underneath all of them at any minute.

  “How many shooters do you have?” McCarter asked James. He did his best to work his way up toward the bow. The deck of the Filipino ship descended from the bridge area to the bow in graduated steps, each step bordered by a metal railing and whatever structural reinforcement was required for the equipment built into that area. This translated into plenty of cover, but it also meant the shooters near the bow could keep laying down bullets relatively unhindered from farther down the deck.

  “I’ve got eyes on two,” James said. “No, scratch that. Three. One looks half scorched, but he’s mobile. They’ve all got Kalashnikovs and they look plenty mean.”

  “They’ve got nowhere to go unless they take down this ship,” McCarter said. “If they can’t make it safe for the other launch to swing back and pick them up, they’re out of luck. I think the penalty for piracy, even internationally, is still hanging around these parts, mate. Can’t say I blame them.”

  “Yeah.” James said nothing more for several moments, giving McCarter time to get into position.

  Finally the Briton judged he was as close as he was going to get to the pirate boarders. Around them on the deck, fires still continued to burn, although the Filipinos had all disappeared. They were below, trying to keep the ship afloat. Hopefully none of the fires up here would get bad enough to seriously endanger the boat before they could be attended to.

  From where he was now positioned, McCarter could see the tops of the three pirates’ heads. One of those heads was shaved bald and looked very red, then very black. Those were nasty burns. Shock and exposure might kill that man before somebody could put a round through his dome. For now, though, the pirate was mobile and fighting.

  “I’ve got them, too, now,” McCarter advised James. “On my mark, I want you to lay down enough fire on the left to drive them over to the right. There’s a gap in the railing there. Just crowd them, mate. Drive them toward the gap. I’ll do the rest.”

  “Affirmative,” James said.

  “Now!” McCarter ordered.

  James’s Tavor started belching 5.56 mm death. The Stony Man commando squeezed measured bursts from the weapon, which Phoenix Force had used many times before. The compact design and modular ergonomics made the rifle a favorite among combat troops. It was comfortable and accurate. The red-dot optics offered good, fast, target acquisition, and the rate of fire was quick enough to be truly fearsome.

  From his position, McCarter was basically guessing. In combat, you took what you could get. Much like a hunter who ascertains his target then fires at the shadow where his target will be, McCarter simply waited for what light he could see through the gap to disappear. He did not need much. A single moment was all it would take.

  There it was.

  McCarter fired, just once, then once again for good measure. The shadow disappeared from the gap. That would be his pirate target falling away from the section of railing that had betrayed him.

  “Lather, rinse, repeat,” James said through the transceiver. Once more he drove the pirates back toward the gap where McCarter could see them, and once more McCarter took the shot that was offered. The trick would not work a third time, however. No matter how hard James tried to light up one section of the railing, the third and final pirate simply would not move from his spot.

  “I think he might be down,” James said. “I can’t get him to budge.”

  A shot rang out from where the pirate was sheltered. There was a pause, then two more shots, one of which ricocheted close to McCarter.

  “No such luck,” McCarter stated. “He’s still with us, mate.”

  “Cover me,” James directed. “I’m going over there and have a talk with that man.”

  McCarter allowed himself a tight, grim smile. When Calvin James had a heart-to-heart talk with someone, it usually involved the business end of a combat knife. The Stony Man commando was one of the most experienced knife fighters McCarter had known in his professional career.

  The Sikorsky continued to make arcs overhead, its guns blazing, chasing and harrying the motor launch. Finally, though, the pirate craft stopped making circuits closer to the Filipino ship and started to recede instead. McCarter reached for his earpiece, intending to give Grimaldi orders. If they could make sure the ship was going to stay above the water line, the Briton would feel comfortable tasking the Sikorsky once more with pursuing the pirates back to their tender. No sooner had he touched the earbud than he realized, of course, that he could not.

  The Sikorsky turned to present the cockpit to the deck of the Filipino ship. McCarter checked for enemy fire. There was none. The gunfire had all ceased. The only sounds now were the distant whine of the motor launch as it retreated, the crackling of flames aboard the Filipino ship and the ringing of the alarms belowdecks. McCarter stood and signaled Grimaldi to come closer.

  As the chopper turned, McCarter could see that there was damage to the fuselage. Wisps of smoke trailed from a scorched hole in the helicopter. There was some connection between the damage and the radio failure, but McCarter had no idea what that could be.

  T. J. Hawkins began to descend on a drop line. The youngest member of Phoenix Force hit his quick-release when he was still a couple feet from the deck. He dropped and absorbed the fall with his knees.

>   “Hawk,” said McCarter when he joined him, “what’s the condition of the chopper?”

  “They hit us with something,” Hawkins said.

  “One of the Thorn rockets?” McCarter asked, knowing as he said it that it could not be true. If the Sikorsky had taken a Thorn it would have been damaged much worse than it had been.

  “No. Some kind of nonexplosive warhead that crippled our electrical systems,” Hawkins elaborated. “Jack is keeping the chopper up there, but there’s a whole lot that’s not working. He says he needs time to set her down and get her properly repaired.”

  “Then following the pirates is out of the question,” McCarter said.

  “Jack says we’re lucky he hasn’t taken up swimming, so I’d say yes, that’s about the size of it,” Hawkins drawled. “He says if you want anything, flash him with Morse where he can see you.”

  “Bloody hell,” McCarter swore. “My Morse code is as rusty as my…well. Actually, it does seem to come up now and again, doesn’t it?”

  The Briton worked his way around to where James had gone to have his “talk” with the third boarder. He found James going through the pockets of the dead man, who was slumped against the railing on the deck in a spreading pool of his own blood.

  “Ghastly,” McCarter commented. “Did you put him down?”

  “No,” James said. “Found him like this. I guess those last few shots were his way of saying goodbye. He’s got a nick in his femoral artery. Bled out fast.”

  “I’m sure no one will mourn his passing,” McCarter said. “Not much, anyway.” The man was gray from blood loss. As it turned out, this was the scorched pirate, who had evidently gotten the worst of the explosion that had obliterated the first of the pirate launches.

  There was a sudden bustle of activity from below. The Filipino captain and several of his men emerged. Four of the sailors carried M-16 A-1 rifles, one of the standard infantry weapons of the armed forces of the Philippines. The soldiers took up formation, two kneeling, two standing, and aimed their weapons at McCarter, James and Hawkins. The captain looked more than a little annoyed.

  “We no sink,” he said.

  “Now see here, mate,” McCarter said. “I realize perhaps now that things are under control, you’re feeling like asking just what we’re doing on your ship. But as you can see—” he pointed to the helicopter hovering overhead “—we’re the reason you didn’t get blown out of the water.”

  “I check with my government,” the captain said. “You no move.”

  “That’s fair enough, mate,” McCarter said. “We no move. But I’d like to signal my chopper to put in to port. He’s got electrical problems.”

  The captain’s eyes narrowed and his hand drifted to the M-9 automatic now holstered on his belt. Evidently the captain had decided, after seeing to the damage to his vessel, that a trip to the armory had been in order. McCarter couldn’t say he blamed the man. Under the circumstances, it seemed unlikely that McCarter would himself just ignore boarders who claimed to be on the right side.

  More crew members were moving around the deck now, using portable extinguishers to put out the fires still burning. The captain watched them, probably to make sure everything was under control. In the distance across the water, several vessels were now approaching.

  James pointed, but the captain shook his head.

  “You called for help?” McCarter asked the captain.

  “Navy coming,” the captain announced. “Hope you three check out.”

  “We will, mate,” McCarter said. “We will.” He took his signal mirror from a pouch on his web gear and angled it at the chopper. Hoping he was getting the message across, he did what he could to flash “port” a couple of times. Grimaldi got the hint, dipped the nose of the helicopter then turned and limped away.

  “There goes our ride,” James said.

  “I’m sure the captain here could be convinced to help us put in to port,” McCarter said. “Once he’s determined to his satisfaction that we’re not his enemies. Which I think he already understands, for the most part.”

  “I can feel his understanding through those four assault rifles,” Hawkins said.

  “People have different ways of expressing trust,” James said.

  McCarter wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw the Filipino captain crack a smile.

  “Trust issues,” the captain noted.

  “What’s that, mate?” McCarter asked.

  “I have,” the captain said, grinning.

  The troops lowered their weapons. James and Hawkins exchanged glances.

  “Don’t we all,” James said. He blew out the breath he had been holding. “Don’t we all.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Fitzpatrick entered Rhemsen’s office and helped himself to a chair without being asked. As he always did, Rhemsen glared through that frozen plastic face of his, but there wasn’t much he could do about Fitzpatrick’s liberties. After all, Rhemsen knew as well as Fitzpatrick did that without Blackstar men to provide muscle for RhemCorp’s operations, there would be nothing between Rhemsen and a half dozen major enemies the man had already made.

  Some of those enemies, like the Mob, wouldn’t hesitate to start knocking over RhemCorp holdings if they thought they could do so without provoking a war. But with Blackstar guarding Rhemsen’s assets, and given just how many men with guns Blackstar could put on the street, even the mafia knew better than to poke that hornets’ nest with a stick.

  “You look nervous, boss,” Fitzpatrick said. “More nervous than usual. Nervous even for you, I mean.”

  “What do you think, Jason?” Rhemsen said. He was drinking something with a lot of ice in it. The glass clinked when Rhemsen snatched it and gulped the contents down. His eyes were wide when he looked up again. “There are powerful forces that know what we’re doing.”

  “Which powerful forces are those, Harry?” Fitzpatrick said, grinning. He knew that Rhemsen hated being called “Harry.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” Rhemsen said. “Government involvement was inevitable. But it’s too soon. It throws off my timetable considerably.”

  “Wait a minute,” Fitzpatrick said. “I thought you said you had this all figured out. That’s why we grabbed those guys. That’s why you said it was okay to disappear them. How deep are you digging this hole? I don’t want to end up in prison for the rest of my life.”

  “I’m the reason you aren’t already there,” Rhemsen argued. “Don’t forget that, Jason. Without me, without my lawyers, without my financing, Blackstar wouldn’t even exist in its current form. The corporation that now bears the name isn’t the first to hold the moniker, nor will it be the last before we’re finished. If you want to stay one step ahead of Uncle Sam and his investigators, you need me as much as I need you.”

  “Would you calm down already?” Fitzpatrick said. “You’re worse than my mother. Or you would be if she was still alive, that miserable broad. Look, I know that, all right? I just want to know what you think this means for the operation.”

  “What do you think it means?” Rhemsen shot back. “We’re going to have to suspend our sales pipelines outside the country until we’re sure we aren’t compromised. And I need you to mobilize elements of Blackstar in the Philippines. If the government is sending agents to my doorstep, it means they’re certain RhemCorp hardware is involved. They just don’t know what they can prove yet as far as I am concerned. So they’ll be investigating both ends, and that means there will be government agents sniffing around the ports in the South China Sea. Set a trap, if you can. Lure whomever the government has sent and make them disappear. That should stall things, at the very least, as they try to figure out where they went wrong. Make sure your men coordinate with my pirates.”

  “Listen to you,” Fitzpatrick said. “Your pirates. You’re paying a bunch of broken-down, sea-going thieves and you’re hoping for loyalty. That’s not going to end well. They’re not professional soldiers. Not like me. Not like my men.”

  �
�They’re vicious and, for a price, they take orders,” Rhemsen said. “That is precisely what I require them to be. Isn’t that what you call it? ‘Pay to play.’ Isn’t that how Americans refer to trade with China? America hates China, paints it as the aggressor, disrespects the nation with the largest standing military force on Earth…but then, for a price, sells its manufacturing to this nation it so reviles.”

  “You talk like you’re not part of that,” Fitzpatrick said. “Last I knew you were part of the American capitalist machine, Harry.”

  “So I am,” Rhemsen replied. “Fortunately for both of us I’ve spread enough of the proceeds around that capitalist machine in Washington, in the form of bribe money. It will serve to slow the process of any investigation that will arise. Or at least, I thought I would do so. These men…it worries me, not knowing exactly who or what they represent. Money will only take us so far if forces inside Washington have decided to take direct action against us. This is unusual. Direct action is usually last on a long list of delaying tactics in the government.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Fitzpatrick said. “I’ll break those agents. If their leader doesn’t crack, one of his two subordinates will. I’ll kill one of them if I have to. That ought to shake the other one up. And if it doesn’t, watching them both die will soften up the big one. It should only take a few days of sleep deprivation and torture to get him to spill.”

  “I’m not sure we have a few days,” Rhemsen said. “And I wish you wouldn’t talk that way.”

  “Don’t be a weakling,” Fitzpatrick said. “What do you want me to say—‘enhanced interrogation’? We both know what I’ve got to do to get them to talk. But you need to consider something, boss.”

  “And that is?”

  “What are you gonna do if they come clean? Let’s say laughing boy and his two friends turn out to be NSA operatives. Are you prepared for the fallout from killing agents of the most secretive intelligence agency in the country?”