Sensor Sweep

by Don Pendleton

  Marais managed to clear her pistol from the hip holster she wore and tried to tag the other attacker, but he dodged to the left and her shot went wide. Before she could realign her sights, gunfire echoed above their heads. McCarter looked up to see Manning descending on the line, one hand controlling his speed while he fired his .357 Magnum Desert Eagle with the other. Two of the Canadian’s four shots struck home. One punched a whole through the enemy’s chest, and a second got him in the shoulder. The man’s body flipped under the force of the heavy-duty Magnum loads and he sprawled to the cracked pavement, his chin leading the way.

  Manning touched down as lightly as a goose feather. He freed himself from the belay line a moment later, then waved a signal for Grimaldi to winch it in. The line began to withdraw as the chopper turned and climbed steeply from their position.

  McCarter slapped his friend’s back. “Nice shooting, mate.”

  “New contacts,” Manning quipped.

  “Let’s get to business.”

  The trio turned and moved toward the nearest building. When they reached the shadows, McCarter glanced at his watch. Only three minutes had elapsed since their insertion. Adding to that the ten-minute wait and two minute transit to the drop point brought the total to roughly fifteen minutes. That should have been enough time for Encizo, James and Hawkins to reach the shoreline.

  Given the quick response of the now-dead pair of sentries, McCarter figured they weren’t far from where the central group hid. The tip from Marais’s prisoner had paid off. The Briton wasn’t sure they would have been able to extract much more from the prisoner. Perhaps if her superiors had horned in on their operation, it hadn’t been a bad thing. At least that took the spoiler off Phoenix Force’s hands, and no one had to stay behind to babysit.

  “Hey, Brown,” Marais whispered over his shoulder, “are you waiting for an engraved invitation?”

  McCarter jerked his thumb in the direction of the deceased. “Looks like it was already delivered.”

  “This year, team,” Manning interjected.

  The Phoenix Force leader nodded and then peered around the corner. There was no entrance on this side of the building, which meant they would have to find another way in. There was a lot of ground to cover and they didn’t have time for a building-to-building search. McCarter was hoping they’d get lucky. He quickly spotted the door midway between the two corners, checked their flank one last time, gestured for his team to follow then sprinted for the door.

  They reached it only to discover it was locked.

  McCarter signaled Manning and immediately took up covering position in one direction, signaling Marais to take the other. She obeyed as the big Canadian stepped forward and reached into his bag of tricks. He withdrew a stick of C-4 plastique, which was already formed to take a blasting cap. He inserted a primer with a wire antenna attached to its end, then pressed it firmly against the bottom hinge. He repeated the procedure for the top hinge and then indicated the others should grab cover.

  Manning traversed the wall back the way they had come, stopping maybe twenty-five yards from the door. McCarter and Marais quickly found cover behind some nearby crates. After the big Canadian verified they were clear, he withdrew a wireless detonator from his pocket, engaged the arming switch and pushed the button. The radio frequency spanned the distance and ignited the primers. The heat and pressure detonated the C-4, and in a cloud of smoke and red-orange flame it blew the heavy door clean off its hinges, taking some of the concrete and mortar of the building with it.

  McCarter and Marais joined their teammate a moment later and the trio entered the darkened building cautiously, weapons held at the ready. The damp and musty smell of the interior signaled disuse. McCarter felt it highly unlikely they would find their quarry in this building.

  The sudden muzzle-flashes and ear-splitting reports of autofire quickly changed his mind.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Rafael Encizo had just left the water and stripped off his gear when he heard the first sounds of gunfire.

  He quickly gained his bearings and looked in the direction of the chopper, gauging its distance by the sound of its blades smacking the air. Encizo sensed McCarter and the rest were in trouble. For the briefest moment the Cuban warrior thought he saw flashes of light just below the chopper. Muzzle-flashes, perhaps? Or flaming equipment? Whatever the hell it was, it signaled something had gone awry.

  Encizo turned to see his teammates exit the water, their heads appearing over the edge of the dock. Fortunately, a small boat pier with a ladder at its end led from the shipyard docking and storage area. Encizo reached over to help Hawkins out of the water, lent a hand to James.

  “Damn, Rafe,” Hawkins said, snapping the skintight cap from his head. “You took that spill today, and you still swim like an Olympic gold medalist.”

  Encizo showed him a wry grin as he replied, “Yeah, well, save the scorecards for later, T.J. We’ve got trouble on the horizon.”

  “What’s the deal?” James asked with obvious concern.

  “Not sure,” Encizo replied, “but I saw what may have been shooting or explosions near the chopper.”

  “You think they got made?” Hawkins asked.

  “Possible,” Encizo said. “But we won’t know for sure until we find them, so I’d advise getting out of those wet suits ASAP, and getting geared up.”

  Encizo turned from his teammates and grabbed the waterproof equipment bag. The bag was adorned with air bladders that kept it afloat during their swim. Encizo released the air-tight seals and zipped the bag down to reveal their weapons. He’d opted for an MP-5 A-3 subgun and .45 caliber Colt M-1911 A-1 as his side arm. Unlike his teammates, he’d chosen a Cold Steel Tanto fighting knife over the standard Ka-Bar.

  He checked the load and action on the MP-5 A-3, slung it then wrapped a Sam Browne belt around his waist. Encizo then turned to the other weapons. He handed four spare magazines loaded with 5.56 mm ammo and a satchel of 40 mm HE grenades to James, followed by an M-16 A-4 assault rifle with attached M-203. He passed Hawkins an H&K G-41—a modern variant of the HK 33 optimized for SS109 hardball ammo that could be fired in 3-shot mode—and a Beretta 93-R. The trio quickly checked their weapons and moved toward the main shipyard with Encizo on point, James at center and Hawkins on rear guard.

  They moved with stealth in spite of the fact that it sounded as though the other trio’s cover had been blown. There was no reason to alert the enemy to the fact they were being stormed on more than one front. The threesome kept to the shadows, and Encizo was optimistic that their advance had gone undetected so far. He wasn’t the least bit sure what would have blown the operation so early in the game, but then he didn’t have any evidence to suggest it wasn’t simply the terrorists’ response to the sudden arrival of the chopper. It still seemed like a hell of a quick response for an insertion that they weren’t expecting. Who knew how long the terrorists had operated here without interference? They would have grown lax, perhaps even become a bit lazy in their security. Well, he needed to stop worrying about that and focus on the task at hand.

  McCarter and Manning could take care of themselves and Marais with their eyes closed.

  The Cuban stopped short when he heard a stifled yelp of pain. He crouched and turned, seeing Hawkins rubbing his ankle and James moving to his position to check the injury. Encizo took a moment to scan the ground and noted that there were some cracks and deformities in the pavement of the dock area. The concrete here was old, weathered from years of salt-laden sea air. Its integrity was compromised with rubble in places where cracks and potholes had developed.

  “Is he all right?” Encizo whispered.

  James nodded as Hawkins replied, “I’m fine, just turned my ankle a bit.”

  “Both of you watch your step,” James counseled them. “The ground’s uneven here.”

  They took up their original positions and continued toward the shadowy outlines of some wrecked-out forklifts. Encizo signaled them to regroup as he studied th
e area ahead. The first building they encountered stood some sixty yards from their position, surrounded by an open area of more broken pavement. The little Cuban knew they couldn’t move that fast across the treacherous area, and the poor lighting served as both blessing and curse.

  Before Encizo could formulate a plan for crossing the expanse as quickly and safely as possible, he saw movement. He squinted, not sure if he’d seen what he thought he’d seen, but his patient vigil paid off. The movements were too calculated, too precise, to be those of animals. What he saw was a group of black-clad forms shifting positions, leapfrogging from one position of cover to the other. Their backs were to the Phoenix Force warriors, so Encizo figured they were waiting to spring an ambush on McCarter’s team.

  Encizo motioned his two friends to draw close. “You guys see what I see?”

  “I see London, I see France, I say it’s just about time to dance,” Hawkins cracked.

  James nodded. “I count five, maybe six.”

  “Ditto,” Encizo said. “And there could be more.”

  “What’s the gig?” James asked.

  “Well, we can’t just walk into the open. The terrain’s too unpredictable.” Encizo looked in all directions and eventually spied a series of commercial shipping crates stored end to end. “I say you two go for those, try to find a way to flank. I’ll stay here and cover you. Go now.”

  Hawkins and James moved away quickly and silently. Encizo was sorry he hadn’t packed a night-vision scope for the MP-5, but then they hadn’t been given a whole lot of time to prepare. McCarter had put the op together as efficiently but quickly as he knew how. Encizo always believed thorough planning was the key to any such insertion exercise like this. But then sometimes planning had to be thrown to the wind and warriors simply had to, as Carl Lyons was fond of saying, “just nut up and do it.”

  Encizo figured the closest target he could detect would pose the greatest threat if James and Hawkins were spotted, so he steadied the MP-5 against one of the forklift’s skids and trained his sights on that area. Fortunately his friends made it to the crates unchallenged.

  Less than a minute passed before Encizo caught just the hint of two outlines emerge from the far side of the crates and proceed slowly but deliberately in the direction of the enemy. The Cuban counted to five, then rose and moved toward the enemy’s position, keeping his eye on the closest target.

  There will be no ambush tonight, boys, the Cuban thought.

  When he was within fifteen meters, Encizo went prone, raised his MP-5 and squeezed the trigger. His target turned at the sound of Encizo hitting the ground, but it was too late for an effective response. At the same moment the terrorist opened his mouth to shout a warning to his comrades, the Phoenix Force commando’s rounds punched through the gap. The man’s skull blew apart under the short-range velocity of the slugs, his body slamming against the large, upturned chunk of pavement he’d used for cover. He slid soundlessly to the ground as his deadened legs folded under him.

  A flash of light on metal in Encizo’s peripheral vision caused him to turn and ready for a flanking attack, but he quickly saw it was James and tempered his near reflex action to defend himself. A heartbeat when he noticed that James was triggering his weapon on the run. A second later Encizo understood the fervor. The Cuban warrior had been so focused on taking his first target by surprise, he hadn’t noticed another terrorist lining up his sights to claim Encizo as a prize. James’s timing saved his life, and it was one of the first times Encizo could remember the distinctive autofire of an M-16 A-4 being music to his ears. His would-be executioner danced under the hail of high-velocity rounds that spit from the assault rifle and ripped gaping wounds in tender flesh. The man fell to the ground in an untidy heap.

  Encizo got to his feet, tossed off a salute of thanks then indicated they should proceed. James tossed a similar gesture of acknowledgment and started forward.

  T. J. Hawkins was the next one to score on a terrorist. Several of the remaining gunners had fled, moving in the direction of the building ahead, but one stood his ground. He took turns firing on Encizo and James, apparently unaware that there was a third party in the game. Hawkins managed to flank the shooter on his blind side, just to his left and slightly rear. His adversary never saw it coming as Hawkins raised his G-41 and triggered a single round through the back of the man’s head. The forehead erupted in a gory exhibition of blood, bone and gray matter. The nearly decapitated corpse slumped forward, rifle clattering from its desensitized fingers, then slumped backward.

  The trio continued toward the building, moving in a fire-and-maneuver drill they had practiced a thousand times and probably executed in battle half as many. The terrorists continued sprinting toward the building, but one of the three stopped suddenly and turned, obviously intent on covering the escape of his comrades. His bravery was commendable, but at the cost of his life. All three Phoenix Force warriors brought their weapons to bear and let loose at the same time. Bullets smashed through the man’s guts, chest and skull; the flesh-shredders decimated his upper torso mercilessly and the impact flung him off his feet and slammed him to the pavement.

  The other pair had now reached the building. One gunner appeared to fumble with the lock in the door while the other whirled and opened up on the trio with a fusillade of rounds. The weapon barked with the familiar reports of an AK-74S.

  Encizo and Hawkins went prone, scraping hands and knees to avoid being ventilated, but James was lucky enough to find cover behind a large chunk of broken pavement. He retrieved a 40 mm HE grenade from the satchel, slammed it home and closed the breach of the launcher. He then aimed the grenade and squeezed the trigger, not even bothering to engage the leaf sight, rather trusting his experience and intuition with the launcher. The grenade landed just as the one terrorist got the door open with a cry of triumph. The high-explosive round blew on impact, ripping the door from the hinges and separating appendages from its intended targets. Flaming wreckage and debris still fell as the three Phoenix Force veterans reunited.

  “Well, looks like that’s the end of that,” Hawkins said with a drawl.

  “Yup,” James agreed.

  “Nice work, boys,” Encizo said. “Now come on, let’s find David, Rafe and Gary.”

  WHETHER SKILL, FATE OR some other unexplained phenomenon saved David McCarter and Gary Manning might never be known. The fact remained that they were spared from the swift and violent assault of a group of terrorists lying in wait for them.

  Unfortunately, Jeanne Marais wasn’t.

  She took three slugs, two in the stomach and a third through the right upper chest, before Manning—for the second time in as little as twenty-four hours—pulled her to safety. The big Canadian had managed to find cover to shelter both of them, and moved clear with her before the area where they had stood was rife with bullets. Even in the poorly lit building he could see the dark stains of blood spreading rapidly across her blouse. She coughed several times, flecks of the blood appearing on her mouth and chin as she struggled to breathe.

  Manning held her tightly, her head resting in his lap, and smiled at her. He shouted to be heard above the cacophony of gunfire. “Hang tight, lady! You’re going to pull through!”

  Manning realized McCarter was otherwise occupied, although he couldn’t be certain whether the Briton had seen Marais get hit. Either way, it didn’t matter because McCarter never showed his belly to the enemy. In fact, the Cockney warrior responded in just the opposite fashion, returning the terrorist fire with a furious volley of his own. A moment later, over the din of the sporadic firing, Manning heard the unmistakable ping of a spoon leaving a grenade body.

  Covering his own ears, he wrapped his thighs around Marais’s and shielded as much of her body with his own as he could manage. It occurred to him even as he did that he was risking his own life to shield that of a potentially dead woman. Still, he couldn’t take the chance.

  The room was rocked a moment later by a hot explosion. Superheated gla
ss and metal fragments whooshed a few meters over his head, followed by the sound of autofire as McCarter put his MP-5 into action. The explosion and subsequent gunfire caused Manning’s ears to ring, threatening to disorient him, but the big Canadian kept it in control. He gently moved Marais’s head from beneath his lap, then joined McCarter in spraying the area with high-velocity slugs.

  After nearly thirty seconds of continuous fire, sustained only by the fact they were intermittently changing out magazines at different points, the two men ceased the assault. The vast room they had entered fell into silence—so quiet, in fact, that Manning could hear the blood rushing through his ears as his heartbeat began to slow as the sudden surge of adrenaline abated. After more than a minute, when no further threat presented itself, McCarter emerged from his cover and stepped into the half-light emanating from the doorway Manning had blown open.

  “You all right, mate?” McCarter asked, just the slightest shake evident in his voice. He had also suffered some effects of their near-death experience.

  “I’m okay,” Manning replied, turning his attention toward Marais. “But I think Jeanne’s in trouble.”

  McCarter moved to Manning, who had knelt and was now holding Marais’s head in his hands once more. Her breathing was ragged, wheezy, and her eyes were starting to glaze. She was going into shock—probably from all the blood loss or due to what was obviously a punctured lung—and Manning knew there wasn’t a thing they could do. Suddenly he heard the sickening, wet crackling sound of a sucking chest wound.