Sensor Sweep

by Don Pendleton

  “The heat reading I have isn’t as intense, Papa One,” Grimaldi said.

  “Explain,” McCarter demanded.

  “Well, you’re getting much closer to it, but, given the size, you should be able to see Papa Two by now.”

  McCarter stopped and thought about this a second. The air around them was clear with the exception of the chopper, which ruled out any likelihood that someone was jamming them or sending false signals. Besides, McCarter knew enough to know that it was very difficult to fake infrared readings on a remote sensor. Maybe if someone had programmed it ahead of time. McCarter wasn’t buying that since Grimaldi kept the equipment close at hand when they were on missions to prevent sabotage, and the pilot would have thoroughly inspected anything the SANDF supplied on the loaner rotary.

  So what did that leave? They couldn’t see Encizo and he wasn’t up a tree. That left only one explanation: The guy was “below” them. He’d either fallen into a trap, a well, or found some type of bunker. McCarter voiced his opinion to James and Grimaldi, and both agreed it was the most reasonable explanation. McCarter and James hastened forward and quickly found the hole. It wasn’t that wide, and it looked natural.

  McCarter got on his hands and knees, then snatched the minilight from one of the shoulder straps of his load-bearing equipment harness. He pushed aside some of the dried grass and clicked on the flashlight. A beam pierced the darkness and came to rest almost immediately on the motionless form of Rafael Encizo.

  James stood behind McCarter, leaning over but staying a respectful distance from the hole. “What do you see?”

  “It’s Rafe, all right,” McCarter said. “And it looks like he’s out cold.”

  “We need to get him out of there.”

  “Working on that, mate,” McCarter said as he reached to a thick pouch on his belt and withdrew a small, compact grappler. It was attached to one hundred feet of specially designed cord with a tensile strength of fifteen hundred pounds. McCarter handed the grappler to James, who immediately took it to the trunk of the nearest mature tree. McCarter had already played out the rope and was swinging his legs into the hole by the time James returned.

  “Take it easy,” James said, immediately taking up an anchor position on the rope.

  McCarter went quickly and smoothly down the rope, advancing hand by hand, until he reached the bottom. He knelt next to Encizo and let out a sigh of relief when he located a strong, regular pulse. As his eyes adjusted to the gloomy surroundings, lit only by the light streaming through the hole, the Briton noticed a gash on Encizo’s forehead. There were no rocks immediately visible; he had to have hit his head at the top or on the way down. McCarter quickly pulled a medical compress from his harness and a minute later had a makeshift bandage around Encizo’s head.

  “How is he?” James shouted.

  McCarter looked up to the some thirty-foot span and grinned. “He’s breathing and has a pulse. Looks like he hit his head, but I think he’s going to be okay. We—”

  Something hard and cold suddenly settled in the pit of McCarter’s stomach as hairs stood up on the back of his neck. Sixth sense was kicking in, but not as McCarter would have experienced being in imminent danger. This was something else entirely; almost a sense that he hadn’t paid as careful attention to his surroundings as he might have had he not been so concerned for Encizo.

  McCarter rose slowly and turned to see that this was more than just a simple hole in the ground. The walls were too convex to be the product of natural design, and now he began to wonder what the hell might be on the other side of the waist-high tunnel, the entrance of which shone in his flashlight. The metal was shiny, indicating it was fairly new, and then McCarter suddenly understood.

  He looked up at James. “Calvin, you better get Jack on the horn and see if he can raise Gary and T.J.”

  “What’s up?”

  The Briton shrugged. “I could be wrong, but I think Rafe here fell into an airshaft. There’s some metal-framed ducting work that goes somewhere here.”

  James nodded, then keyed his radio. “Papa Three to Eagle One.”

  “Eagle One standing by.”

  “Papa One requests you raise the others and tell them to beat feet out here lickety-split. Also, be advised we found Papa Two and he’s going to be all right.”

  “Copy, Papa Three, and that’s good to hear. But I was just about to call you. I just spoke with Papa Four and he advised they were involved in something downtown. He couldn’t talk, but I got something about they were chasing someone.”

  McCarter heard that and keyed the switch on his own radio. “What does that mean?”

  “Like I said, Papa One, I didn’t get more than that.”

  “Well, then, keep me posted,” McCarter replied. “We’ll just have to get Papa Two out of here, and we’ll advise when ready for pickup.”

  “Understood. Eagle One is standing by.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Gary Manning sensed he was gaining on the enemy as he watched Hawkins round a corner fifteen yards dead ahead. He was just coming up on the turn when he heard the first shots ring out. The big Canadian took the corner and brought his pistol to bear, quickly realizing it wasn’t necessary as Hawkins trotted nonchalantly to where their quarry lay facedown, and kicked the micro-Uzi out of reach.

  Manning joined him thirty seconds later. “Is he dead?”

  Hawkins shook his head and replied, “Playing possum.” He reached down, grabbed a handful of the man’s shirt and rolled him over.

  The guy was breathing very heavily and immediately threw up his hands and began to speak to them in Arabic. It took the two Phoenix Force warriors a full minute to quiet him. After Manning caught his breath he knelt and checked the guy’s wound. It was just a graze on the right side just below the ribs.

  Manning rose and dusted his hands. “Good shot. A little more to the right and it would have been curtains.”

  “So do you think he really doesn’t speak English?”

  “I don’t know,” Manning replied, “and my Arabic’s sketchy. But I think we ought to get him back to the hotel and just see how much English he knows.”

  Manning felt a vibration at his belt and realized from the expression on Hawkins’s face that he was also getting it. It was the radio. The two men had switched to vibration mode and tucked the units on their belts beneath light jackets.

  Manning switched over to their secured channel. “Papa Four, here. Go.”

  “Eagle One, here. You copy?”

  “Loud and clear, ace. What’s up?”

  “Papa One needs your support at their location. We’ve got a class-one situation on our hands. I’ll pick you up at the airport and fill you in.”

  “Acknowledged. We’ll be there in about thirty minutes. Out, here.” Manning didn’t wait for Grimaldi’s reply.

  “We better get this guy to Marais,” Hawkins said. “She can arrange to have him taken to our hotel and held there until we can interrogate him more thoroughly.”

  Manning nodded his agreement. They had been in the country less than four hours and already things were falling apart. That wasn’t a good way to start off the mission. Terrorists had tried to kill them, and now McCarter was calling for support up on Table Mountain. A class-one situation, Grimaldi had said. That meant either a compromise in security or one of their own was down. In either case, it really meant the shit was hitting the fan and McCarter wanted everybody to form on him.

  Yeah, it was turning out to be one hell of a day.

  BY THE TIME MANNING and Hawkins reached the rest of Phoenix Force, McCarter and James had Rafael Encizo out of the pit. He lay on the ground. Manning felt some sense of relief when he saw the Cuban had regained consciousness.

  “How’s the patient, Doc?” Hawkins asked James as soon as they stepped off the chopper.

  “I’ll live,” Encizo grumbled. “No need to go all mushy on me.”

  Hawkins shook his head in mock sadness. “Damn. And here I thought maybe you’d left
me something in your will.”

  “It’ll take more than a shallow hole like that to finish me,” Encizo said, jerking his thumb to the left.

  Manning looked in the direction Encizo had gestured, didn’t see a thing then shot a questioning gaze at McCarter.

  “He fell into a pit over there, but the blooming thing was hardly shallow,” the Phoenix Force leader replied. “It’s a good ten meter drop, so he’s damn lucky he didn’t break something. And he’d be in bloody worse shape if it weren’t for that thick skull of his.”

  “All right,” Manning said, “what’s this about an airshaft? Jack mentioned it on the ride out.”

  McCarter nodded. “The hole is actually a return air vent. There’s some wire and metal ductwork that leads from the pit to who knows where. I wanted all of us together before taking a closer look.”

  Encizo sat up suddenly. “Well, we’re all together now, so let’s get cracking.”

  “Uh-uh, Rafe,” Calvin James insisted. “You need that bump checked out before I can clear you.”

  “That’s bullshit, Calvin.”

  “It may be bullshit, but that’s the way it is,” McCarter interjected.

  “I feel fine,” Encizo snapped. “I was only out—”

  “At least twenty minutes,” James finished. “Which means you could have a mild concussion, which also means you pose a risk to the rest of the team until you can be thoroughly assessed. Yeah, right now you seem fine, but that doesn’t mean you are fine. Not at least until we get you to the hospital where they can take some pics of your head.”

  “But I feel fine,” Encizo insisted.

  “Sorry, Rafe, but I won’t risk you or the mission,” McCarter said. “I have to defer to Calvin’s judgment, and that’s the end of it.”

  Encizo looked just a moment at Manning for support, but the big Canadian shook his head. “You know he’s right, Rafe.”

  Encizo finally nodded and they helped him to his feet and got him to the chopper. The little Cuban was tough and fierce, but common sense told him that it was better to get a clean bill of health. Not only would it put his teammates at ease, but it would get him back in action all that much sooner. Grimaldi promised James to take him straight to one of the main trauma centers in Cape Town and make sure he got checked out.

  Once the chopper departed, the four remaining teammates headed for the pit. It was time to find out just exactly what lay beneath Table Mountain.

  IT TOOK JEANNE MARAIS a few hours to get things sorted out with the half-dozen or so local agencies that responded to the events on the wharf. She would have loved to just tell them to all mind their own business, but that wasn’t going to work in this case. The South African government had a very strict hands-off policy when it came to local issues, and right now this fell into their jurisdiction. It wouldn’t come under the authority of the South African Secret Service until she could provide proof of a threat to national security and get an order from the director to take charge of the investigation.

  Fortunately, two of Rensberg’s superiors made an appearance, so it comforted her to know that the military was standing behind its promise to support the investigation of Kern Rensberg’s death in any way possible. They had acted with considerable unity, sticking close by while the Cape Town police questioned her. She had left the scene with her prisoner, quickly transporting him to the basement of a nearby government building, and leaving him secured under guard until she could retrieve him. She then returned to the scene and immediately reported her presence to the lead police inspector.

  “We have witnesses that state you were accompanied by two men when the shooting started, ma’am,” the inspector advised in a respectful but brusque fashion. “Where are they now?”

  “I’m sorry, Inspector, but I’m not at liberty to disclose that information to you.”

  “And under what pretext do you not wish to answer my question?”

  “Not under pretext, I can assure you, Inspector,” she replied, forcing a grin. “I refuse to answer under Act 66.”

  She watched as the inspector nodded; he knew what she referenced. The General Intelligence Law Amendment Act 66 of 2000 had been enacted by the President to amend the National Strategic Intelligence Act of 1994. One of the provisions in the act stipulated under certain conditions a local agency couldn’t compel a member of any federal intelligence service to disclose the identities of contacts or informants if the agent reasonably suspected it would compromise national security. In this case, Marais felt she had evidence to justify her response to this man.

  Following the questioning, Marais spoke briefly with Rensberg’s superiors before returning to the basement, where she found her prisoner waiting. She nodded her thanks to the two men who had watched him in her absence, then dismissed them with orders they weren’t to discuss his existence with anyone, or even acknowledge they had seen or spoken to her. They agreed, and Marais knew these men could be trusted, so she was satisfied with their word.

  Marais took a seat across from the prisoner. Slowly and purposefully, she fished a silver cigarette case from her coat pocket, withdrew one, lit it with a matching lighter, took a drag then sat back as she studied the Arab in front of her through curling tendrils of smoke. She finally offered him one, but he declined with only a gesture. She shrugged, returned the case to her pocket and sat forward with her arms on the table—cigarette held carefully out of his reach—and stared into his eyes.

  “What is your name?” she asked in Afrikaans.

  He didn’t answer, but instead looked confused.

  In Arabic, she continued, “I know that you can understand me now, so let’s stop pretending.”

  “You speak my language?” he asked, surprised.

  “Yes, and you undoubtedly speak mine, but I’m in need of the practice speaking Arabic, so for now I will play your game.”

  “I do not speak your language.”

  “Shut up.”

  The man fell silent.

  “Now, I ask you again, what is your name?”

  “Fadil Shunnar,” he replied, raising his chin some.

  “Very well, Shunnar, let me explain your situation. You are charged with the attempted murder of an intelligence agent—me—of the South African State. Because you were in possession of an automatic weapon, and you acted without regard for the life and property of South African citizenry, this crime and all other crimes with which you are subsequently charged will fall under acts of terrorism. As such, you aren’t entitled to standard representation, although you will be afforded an opportunity to retain private counsel and plea your case to a magistrate in Pretoria.”

  Marais sat back, looked at her cigarette and absently flicked the ashes onto the floor as she continued. “If, however, it is determined you are in this country illegally, then these acts will be considered an attack from the sovereignty of foreign soil. This makes your crimes, in effect, acts of war that fall to military and not civil authority, and is thusly punishable by summary execution.”

  “If this is some tactic to frighten me, it will not work. I am prepared to die for my cause.”

  “Maybe,” Marais replied, “and then again, maybe not. Don’t assume that I’m going to just turn you over to my government. They would be too lenient on you, I think. No, I believe that the Americans are much more anxious to speak with you.”

  That got a reaction—Marais had struck a nerve. Something like fear entered Shunnar’s eyes, and his expression became downcast. This wasn’t what he had expected. He’d probably hoped for a nice, comfortable cell in some jail in Pretoria where he could await trial or firing squad. But the idea of being turned over to the mysterious Americans seemed much less appealing to him, and Marais couldn’t help but wonder if there was something behind that, some key aspect of which she could wield to solicit the terrorist’s cooperation.

  “Of course, if you choose to talk to me, it’s entirely possible you could avoid any unpleasant confrontations. Perhaps, if you tell me of Qibla’s pla
ns, I can arrange for your protection.”

  Shunnar sneered. “Do you think that I am stupid? If I reveal the plans of my people, my life will be forfeit. I am not afraid to die for the cause, but I do fear the curses that will befall me if I die betraying it.”

  Marais took one last drag and exhaled forcefully as she dropped the cigarette and crushed it under the heel of her boot. She studied Shunnar carefully, looking for any sign of deceit, but she found only fanatical determination—and something else. Something like respect, but not quite that. Maybe the fear she sensed was one of loyalty. Yes, that was it—he was protecting someone. Marais thought she knew who it was and decided to see if Shunnar would play into her hand.

  “Why are you trying so hard to protect him?”

  “I don’t know who you speak of,” Shunnar replied quickly.

  “Yes, you do,” Marais replied. “You know exactly who I’m talking about. We know all about Jabir al-Warraq and his conspiring with known terrorists. We also believe he is responsible for the death of a military intelligence agent. I do not suppose you would know anything about that, either, hmm?”

  Shunnar sat in stony silence for a long moment, then asked her for a cigarette. She gave him one, lit it and sat back and folded her arms. She wouldn’t leave until she’d extracted all of the information from him she felt he possessed. Somehow, she planned to make sure that Kern Rensberg’s death was avenged, but that in the future her country couldn’t be used as a terrorist haven.

  “I cannot tell you where he is,” Shunnar finally said, smoking nearly half of the cigarette in the full minute of silence that had passed. “But you are right in that he’s involved.”

  Marais nodded. “And what is he planning to do?”

  “I do not know,” Shunnar replied.

  Marais let out a scornful laugh. “Sure you don’t.”

  “I do not!” More quietly, he added, “I was not part of the final operation. I was ordered to stay behind and make certain that no one pursued those who would actually participate in Qibla’s ultimate plan.”