Sensor Sweep

by Don Pendleton

  “We need Calvin here. Now.”

  McCarter shook his head. “Can’t risk the radio contact.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Manning asked. “They’re already onto us. They already know we’re here. The operation is compromised, and now, as I see it, Cal’s her only chance. We have to help her. We owe her that much, David, and you know it.”

  The Briton finally nodded, the look in his eyes surrendering to Manning’s logic. The big Canadian realized McCarter’s hesitation wasn’t caused by heartlessness, but rather by devotion to duty. They had no idea where Encizo’s team was at, or what they might have encountered. To break radio silence after McCarter had strictly ordered them to forgo radio communications could have a very negative impact on the mission. But then, they had to have enough faith that their transmissions wouldn’t be intercepted. It was a risk, but it was one Manning felt was worth it.

  McCarter started to reach for the switch but Marais raised her hand and shook her head slowly. It was a gesture for him to stop what he was doing.

  Manning looked at McCarter, a bit puzzled, then turned his attention to Marais. “We’re going to get you help.”

  “Don’t,” she said. There was a high-pitched rasp in her voice. “He wouldn’t get here in time.”

  “That’s bullshit, Marais,” McCarter said, kneeling next to her, opposite Manning. “You’re going to pull through this. You’re a tough woman.”

  Marais smiled, but the look in her eyes said she didn’t believe him. “You…always were…full of it, Brown.”

  She coughed twice more and fresh blood oozed from the corners of her mouth. There was little question in Manning’s mind that Marais was right. She probably wouldn’t last long enough for James to arrive. The sucking noises in her chest had stopped. That meant there was no longer any air moving through the right side of her chest wall. It wouldn’t be long before she lost consciousness, assuming she didn’t succumb to the shock of acute blood loss first.

  Either way, she was about to check out.

  “Well, we can’t just—” Manning began.

  “Listen,” Marais cut in with a hoarse whisper. She managed to reach up and palm his cheek. Her hand was cold and damp. “It’s not…your fault. But you need…to know something before I go.”

  “You’re going to pull through,” McCarter said between clenched teeth.

  “I wasn’t forthright with you,” she continued. It was obviously becoming more difficult for her to talk. Her words became slurred as she continued, her speech pattern broken with bouts of coughing and more blood. “The prisoner’s name is Fadil Shunnar, he’s with the Qibla. They are responsible for Rensberg’s death. You…you must stop them. Please…swear you will stop them!”

  “We swear it.”

  “They have…four freighters,” Marais said. “They are loaded with missiles they plan to launch from portable systems. You must find them. You must…find…”

  And then Jeanne Marais coughed her last breath.

  For just a moment, as her hand started to fall, Manning grabbed it and held it against his cheek. This hadn’t been the plan at all. They were going to have to explain her death, which was bad enough, but they had also involved her in something she wasn’t trained for. They had allowed an innocent to fall. Manning looked at McCarter and expressed the accusatory nature of the look. The Briton picked up on it immediately. He knew what Manning was thinking.

  “She was a big girl,” McCarter said. “She could take care of herself, make her own decisions.”

  “Except dying,” Manning replied coolly. “We made that one for her.”

  “She went the way any of us would prefer to go. She went out hard and she went out large. She died defending her country. She died defending what she believed in. So if you want to bloody blame someone, blame the terrorists. Blame the Qibla. And then let’s take that with us, and go find them and blow their bloody arses back to hell.”

  And Gary Manning agreed.

  It was time to take the fight to the enemy. Up to this point, he felt they were the ones who’d been taking the ass-kicking, and it was time to start dishing it out. There was nothing Manning wanted more. He couldn’t dismiss the lump that formed in his throat as he took Marais’s hand from his cheek and laid it at her side. He couldn’t understand his sense of loss, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel it. He hadn’t known her that long, but for some reason in that short period of time he’d come to respect and appreciate her. She was another example of the costs tallied in battling the terrorist threat.

  Jeanne Marais had paid the highest price.

  Yeah, McCarter was right. It was time to go on the offensive and stick the knife right into their hearts, whether that meant the Qibla or whoever was responsible for this travesty. It was time to exact retribution, time to make the terrorists behind understand that there always came a day of recompense for each and every one of them.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Washington, D.C.

  Harold Brognola sat, chomped on a cigar and waited for the Man.

  The situation wasn’t good, and Stony Man had been slow to crack this one wide open. Then again, what the hell did they really have when they started?

  Well, at least they’d made some headway. Able Team was in Boston with a prisoner taken from the Qibla seaside house, and McCarter had called to tell him about their planned operation against the shipyard. Both groups had to cooperate with outside agencies and simultaneously keep local jurisdictions at arm’s length. That wasn’t always an easy task, especially in foreign countries. McCarter had told him and Price of his distrust where Marais and the prisoner were concerned, but they’d agreed that to ask presidential interference so soon wouldn’t help their cause.

  Brognola pondered his decision when his cellular phone rang. It was Aaron Kurtzman.

  “Have you seen the Man arrive yet?” Kurtzman asked.

  “No,” Brognola replied. “Please tell me you’ll have better news for me to give him.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. We just heard from David.”

  “And?”

  “They found Qibla operatives at the shipyard and seized some information they think will help us disseminate their plans.”

  “So we’re pretty sure it’s Qibla behind this?” Brognola asked.

  “There’s no doubt about it,” Kurtzman replied.

  “So that confirms Jabir al-Warraq’s complicity.”

  “Check. We’ve also identified the other guy he’s playing footsies with, one Mahmed Temez.”

  “What do we know about him?”

  “Former Iraqi army officer and escapee from the war,” Kurtzman replied. “He’s been on our most wanted list for a while, apparently.”

  “How come we didn’t flag it sooner? We had a picture.”

  “Yeah, but there were no previous photographs of him we could compare with those we had, boss. His military records were destroyed during the early bombing campaigns. We got lucky because one of Barb’s contacts at the CIA managed to scrounge up a description in an archived database. Something I guess we’d obtained from prisoner interrogations of Iraqi soldiers during Desert Storm. A cross-check confirmed the rest, so now we’re positive of our identification. And check this out. You know what Temez did in the Iraqi military? He was a medium-to long-range field artillery officer, an expert with missile ballistics and equipment.”

  Brognola grunted. “Well, if we add that fact to what we already know from the information Gadgets sent us, it stands to reason they’re planning to launch missiles from portable platforms aboard those freighters they are refitting at the shipyard.”

  “Bingo.”

  “Okay, where do we head from here? What does Barb think?”

  “Well, I have descriptions of four freighters that Phoenix Force seized in Cape Town. I’m cross-checking them now against all known commercial shipping registrations past and present. It shouldn’t take long to narrow down.”

  “Okay, then what?”

  “Well,
once we know what type of ship we’re looking for, we have to determine how many ships are presently at sea that match the criteria, then start discounting those least likely to be a Qibla freighter.”

  “Process of elimination,” Brognola said with a sigh.

  “I know it’s not the preferred method, but with the information I have that’s all I can go on. Our GPS satellite system should be able to make the job easy. Most of the newer freighters are around seven hundred feet in length, which means we’re looking for older and smaller ships.”

  “They’ll also be faster,” Brognola suggested.

  “Right,” Kurtzman agreed. “Not to mention that we have a certain number we can eliminate immediately, since we know all four of these freighters came out of Cape Town. That should narrow our search considerably.”

  “Assuming that they didn’t file bogus shipping manifests,” Brognola said.

  “Well, even if they did, it won’t matter because every ship that leaves port must undergo a safety inspection just prior to departure. This also includes a GPS signal record, and each one is unique. Any ship to leave port must transmit a signal at all times. Any loss of signal would be cause for immediate investigation by the nearest military naval unit.”

  “That’s all well and good, Aaron, but we’re assuming that they even left Cape Town by normal channels. These are terrorists we’re dealing with. They don’t do anything by conventional means.”

  “They do if they don’t want to attract attention,” Kurtzman reminded him. “And the fastest way to do that would be four freighters suddenly leaving a busy port in the dark of night without any warning or clearance, particularly in today’s environment of heightened global security.”

  “All right, I’ll concede that point,” Brognola replied. “And I’ll leave it up to you and Barb on how to proceed here. But keep me informed every step of the way. And call me as soon as you hear anything further from Able Team. Was there anything else?”

  “Yeah, um…just one more thing, so you’re not surprised if the Man mentions it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m sorry to report that Jeanne Marais bought it during Phoenix Force’s assault on the shipyard. She was shot and killed.”

  “Shot and killed?” Brognola echoed. “Christ, what the hell was she doing there? She shouldn’t have even been involved.”

  “I don’t know, Chief,” Kurtzman replied. “That, I would think, would be a question for McCarter. Barb’s nearby. You want to talk to her about it?”

  Brognola sighed again, a longer one that had “tired” written on it. “Not right now. I think I hear the Man. I’ll be back there within two hours.”

  The door of the small White House anteroom swung inward. Four men in suits entered, eyes scanning the interior. A fifth man followed them, this one well-dressed, also, but he seemed disinterested in the activities of the Secret Service. The President finally appeared.

  “Hal, good to see you,” the Man said, crossing the room and extending his hand as Brognola got to his feet. They shook hands and the President introduced the man next to him. “You know Frank Lusk, my national security adviser.”

  “A pleasure,” Lusk said, shaking Brognola’s hand.

  “Likewise,” Brognola replied uncertainly, completely taken aback by Lusk’s presence. He turned to the President. “Uh, Mr. President, no disrespect intended, but I don’t understand why Mr. Lusk is here. We don’t—”

  “I know this is highly irregular, Hal,” the President said. He gestured at the table. “Why don’t we all have a seat and I’ll explain.”

  When they were comfortable, the President said, “Frank here is aware of who you are, Hal…at least indirectly. He is not aware of the exact nature of your additional duties, because he doesn’t need to be aware of them, and he understands that. I invited him because in addition to being my adviser on policies of national security, he also has some ‘special duties’ of his own. He works very closely with Homeland Security, and I think under the present circumstances his input will prove valuable. In a nutshell, that’s why he’s here, it’s at my request and I will take the brunt of any security risks in that regard.

  “In return, I would ask that you be candid about anything you know regarding our situation, but be discreet on the particulars of your people and their operations. Fair enough?”

  Brognola nodded.

  The President smiled, then turned to Lusk. “Frank, as we discussed on the way over, Hal here officially holds a high-ranking position within the Justice Department, but he has some additional duties assigned by my predecessors. The exact nature of this work is classified from everyone, both for the sake of the country as well as the Office. I would ask that you respect that.”

  “Of course, sir,” Lusk said with a nod.

  “Good,” the President replied. He looked at Brognola. “I’m all ears, Hal. Tell me where we’re at.”

  Brognola took a deep breath, appraised Lusk once more and then, “I just received word that we have confirmed Qibla is behind our assessment of a possible terrorist attack, and that we have now identified the major players. As it stands, we expect one or more attacks by missiles possibly containing chemical or biological agents. We think that the Qibla have built mobile launch pads on four different freighters now currently afloat in international waters, and each bound for their own respective targets.”

  “Any idea where they plan to strike?” the President asked.

  “Unfortunately not, sir,” Brognola replied. “What we do know is the specific types of freighters, so my home team is presently looking at ways of assessing all vessels in the present commercial traffic and narrowing it to the best possible candidates. We also have it on good authority the freighters got under way in only the past twelve hours, so that should make it a bit easier.”

  “You mentioned we’ve identified the major players,” the President said. “Who are they?”

  “Well, one we had already known and suspected of collusion, Jabir al-Warraq, is now confirmed. The second man has been identified as Mahmed Temez.”

  The President looked askance at Lusk, who nodded. “I’m familiar with both of them. Al-Warraq has been the figurehead of Qibla since I started as a pup with the Company. He’s wealthy and influential, and has the will to use both if he thinks he stands to gain anything for his cause. The South African government’s biggest trouble has been connecting him to any domestic crimes. For the most part, the general sociopolitical views toward Qibla center on the idea that they are a predictable and peace-loving lot. There are never any violent outbreaks at their demonstrations, at least none they have been known to incite, and they are apparently quite generous to many of the underprivileged.”

  “Doesn’t sound like we could easily convince the South Africans that Qibla’s involved in acts of international terrorism,” the President said.

  “Very doubtful,” Lusk replied.

  “What about Temez?” Brognola said. “What do you know about him?”

  “Well, now, his background is murky,” Lusk admitted. “You could almost say he’s the exact opposite of al-Warraq. He’d avoid publicity of any kind at any cost, and he’s a radical supporter of al Qaeda.”

  “Our intelligence says he’s an Iraqi army officer,” Brognola interjected.

  “Used to be,” Lusk replied. “He went rogue after Baghdad fell and fled the country along with a whole bunch of his fellow officers. We do know that during the evacuation he was involved in either the destruction or sequestering of WMDs and that he participated in the terrorizing of smaller villages during the early phases of the war. He’s also well connected in Syria and Iran. He has lots of friends in high places, and more terrorist leaders who would be willing to hire him than you could shake a stick at.”

  “Could one of those be al-Warraq?”

  “Are you kidding?” Lusk said. “Like I said, al-Warraq loves to rub elbows with Temez’s kind. I could see them getting together and cooking up something like you’re
describing.”

  “So we’re all in agreement that Qibla and Temez have conspired to commit terrorist acts,” the President interjected.

  “Yes, Mr. President,” Brognola replied. “We’ve established the who, what and how, now we just need to figure out the where and when.”

  “That will be the real challenge,” Lusk said. “Given that Mr. Brognola here is assigned the task of looking for needles in the proverbial haystack, I would advise we put the Navy and Air Force on full alert.”

  “That could prompt a lot of very uncomfortable questions from the press corps and Congressional leaders, Frank,” the President said. He looked at Brognola. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t have enough information yet to advise you best, Mr. President,” Brognola replied. “But if you want my opinion, I think that putting the military on full alert is a bit premature, and could cause some unnecessary grief for you. You wouldn’t be able to write that move off as a training exercise.”

  Brognola noticed the furious look Lusk gave him, but he didn’t let it affect him. In most cases, guys like Lusk had some other agenda, and usually the first item on it was protecting their own asses. The difference between him and Lusk was that Lusk’s duties didn’t usually involve sending men he’d known for many years into the heat of battle. Brognola had become very used to his position in Stony Man, but that was something he’d never been able to become accustomed to. If it were his choice, he would have lived in a world where good men like those of Able Team and Phoenix Force didn’t have to risk their lives every day to keep the country secure. Unfortunately, that was his job and he’d do it the best he knew how.

  And he sure as hell wasn’t going to try to make someone else the scapegoat.

  “I hear a ‘but’ in there, Hal,” the President remarked.

  Brognola shrugged. “Well, I do agree that perhaps you might consider upping the readiness status of a few small and select units. Perhaps you might even consider sending them out in an alert, combat-ready state. But any major deployment this early would be tantamount to political suicide, not to mention the panic it might cause.”