Sensor Sweep

by Don Pendleton

  “Likewise,” Schwarz said. “How’s it hanging?”

  “I’m getting by,” Mott replied gregariously. “You know how it goes, same old, same old.”

  “You get briefed by our friends?” Lyons asked, having dispensed with the pleasantries and getting to business.

  Mott nodded. “You bet. I understand we’re looking for a freighter.”

  “Not just any freighter, Charlie,” Blancanales said. “This one’s carrying a warhead loaded with some very nasty chemicals.”

  “Yeah,” Lyons added. “And we’ve been assigned the lovely task of trying to find this needle in a haystack, so I hope all your equipment checks out.”

  “No sweat,” Mott said, patting his aircraft’s nose as gently as he would a baby’s bottom. “The crew in Wonderland fixed up King Fish just fine. She’s running like the champion she is, and I’ve already done all the preflight checks. So if you gents will just climb aboard, we’ll be up, up and away before you know it.”

  Lyons nodded and then joined his teammates in stowing their equipment in the luggage compartment, located in the rear of the plane. While capable of seating eight in the main area, four of the seats had been removed, leaving an open space for the special equipment belonging to Stony Man. Brognola had insisted it be portable, so it was only loaded when Mott had a job to do with the team. Otherwise, Mott kept it locked safely away at an undisclosed location. Even Able Team didn’t know where it was kept, which was fine because they didn’t really have a need to know.

  As they were taking their seats, Mott squeezed past them in the aisle and climbed into the cockpit. It was a two-seater, but Mott didn’t need a copilot. He’d flown the little twin-prop probably as many times as Lyons had shot bad guys.

  Mott taxied onto the terminal and got airborne as soon as the tower had cleared his departure. Meanwhile, Gadgets had turned his attention to setting up the reconnaissance equipment. According to their intelligence, there were two ships bound for the U.S., one going to St. Petersburg and the other to Boston. Seeing as the terrorists had sent the decoy to Boston, Able Team agreed it was unlikely they would send a second freighter there. Security would be tight. The UCGC Grant had arrived shortly after their friends in the Jayhawk had stopped the freighter, and the Harbor was shut down for hours while they towed the freighter to a secure location. They still hadn’t opened the harbor to general traffic when Able Team left.

  The prisoner they had taken at the Qibla house refused to talk, so Able Team turned him over to Nootau Hightree’s custody. Actually, the FBI agent would recover from his injuries with no permanent damage, and the capture of a terrorist insurgent would do wonders for his career. Able Team decided to give Hightree full credit for the capture, which also kept them far removed from any public scrutiny.

  Lyons watched with fascination as Schwarz easily moved from one piece of equipment to the next. The guy’s expertise with electronics was second only to that of Aaron Kurtzman, and that knowledge had been crucial since their first days together. It had certainly served Mack Bolan well during his war against the Mafia, not to mention how valuable it had proved to Able Team since its birth and the origins of Stony Man.

  “What are you doing?” Lyons finally asked, no longer able to quell his curiosity.

  Schwarz stopped what he was doing long enough to look at Lyons with surprise. He knew why his friend was taken aback; Lyons had hardly ever shown much interest in anything technical above a menial sense of duty. Lyons was only interested in those things that could help them in combat, so he knew Schwarz would probably be taken a bit off guard by his genuine interest.

  Schwarz went back to his work, not hiding the smirk on his face. “Yeah, like you really want to know.”

  “I do want to know,” Lyons said, trying to sound hurt, “or I wouldn’t have bothered asking.”

  Schwarz stopped once more to look at his friend. “Really?”

  Lyons sighed, exasperated now. “What, do you want me to swear on the Bible?”

  “As a matter of fact—”

  “Forget it,” Lyons said, waving him off.

  “No, I won’t forget it. You really are interested in this stuff here. Aren’t you?”

  “I just said I was.”

  “Yeah, but…ah, never mind that. What do you want to know?”

  Lyons made a generalized gesture at the equipment. “I want to know about that stuff. What exactly does it do? How does it work? You know, teach me something.”

  “Okay, well, let’s see…let’s start with this here.” Schwarz pointed to a large gray box sitting on top of a swiveling column. He said, “Inside of this is what’s called a Military Laser Inertial Navigation System. It was developed by Honeywell, and it’s capable of working in conjunction with another system called a terrain painter. What this will do is give us a road map, if you will, of the area where the freighter is at. We’ll be able to tell then what we might be up against should we have to bail out and make an assault.”

  Schwarz flipped some nondescript switches on the box and it started to recess into the floor. He then gestured to the two computer systems that took up the majority of the room. “These computers are MilSpec SNU-84-1 compliant, meaning that they answer to the F3 spec of the Air Force.”

  “And that means?” Lyons interjected.

  “Form, fit, function,” Gadgets replied with a wicked grin. “F3 may sound like a lot of mumbojumbo, but that very basic idea has propagated delivery of some of the best equipment the military has ever known, particularly in recent years.

  “Anyway, none of that would be half as interesting if you didn’t know what it actually does, and that’s the cool part. These two innocent little boxes are state-of-the-art, my brother. I can transmit high-speed data to Stony Man at almost one gigabyte per second.”

  “Is that fast?”

  Schwarz burst into laughter. “Does a bear shit in the woods? Hell yeah, it’s fast, and certainly faster than anything the enemy’s got. What we can do would make even military scientists green with envy. We get the latest in everything, Ironman. We get it before NASA, before MIT, even before the Company. Hell, we’re a hotbed of testing. Remember when the ACR prototypes came out and we gave all of them the thumbs-down?”

  Lyons nodded. Oh, yeah, did he remember. Who the hell could forget it? The Advanced Combat Rifle program had been the brainchild of the U.S. Army, designed to give the most promising manufacturers of assault rifles in the world the chance to compete for a contract to supply the latest in small arms arsenals to the American military. The four final designs came from AAI Corporation, Colt, Heckler & Koch and Steyr-Mannlicher. While most of the basic tests were performed by Regular Army and Army Reserve infantry units, the military also considered the possibility of using the weapons in special operations.

  Following inspection by John “Cowboy” Kissinger—Stony Man’s resident gunsmith and chief armorer—the weapon was put into rigorous field testing. Able Team, in particular, abused the hell out of the four candidates, even taking them on a secondary mission. When all was said and done, they considered every single one of the weapons as hardly an improvement on the M-16 A-2, and they told the Army to have their vendors go back to the drawing board. The M-16 A-4 turned out to be the net result of those efforts.

  “But data transmit speed just scratches the surface,” Schwarz continued. “Once we’ve located the freighter, we’ll be able to pinpoint every single target on board. This terminal will show us the heat signatures, and the second will then take that information and map it so that we have a perfect picture of where the hotspots are.”

  “Very nice,” Lyons admitted. “What about Phoenix Force? Do the guys have something similar on board their wings?”

  “You bet,” Schwarz said. “But none of them are as savvy on the technical side. You know how David is. He just likes to push buttons.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Lyons cracked. “All thumbs.”

  “Aw, why don’t you two knock it off?” Rosario Blancanale
s said. Lyons knew he was referencing the almost egomaniacal relationship between him and David McCarter. “You know you really like each other, so why don’t you just kiss and be friends.”

  “Because he’s a cocky Cockney, that’s why,” Lyons shot back. “I know his type.”

  “Yes, and he’s just like you,” Blancanales said. “All ego.”

  Lyons winked and returned his attention to Schwarz when Blancanales simply waved away the gesture. “So, what else can these hunks of junk do?”

  “Well, first you might want to know that these ‘hunks of junk’—is that what you called them?—set the old man back about thirty-five thousand dollars apiece.”

  “What!” Lyons exclaimed. “I don’t know of any computer worth that much!”

  “You don’t know computers, then, because we probably got off cheap, government discounts and all.”

  “Well, if we did,” Blancanales interjected, “it sure wasn’t reflected in our paychecks.”

  “Come on, you know you only do this because the money’s so good,” Schwarz told his longtime friend.

  “Yeah, right, whatever you say, Wizard.”

  Schwarz chuckled, then returned to instructing Lyons. “Okay, so you asked what else it does. Well, because The Bear can send us so much information so quickly, this thing can also tell us at almost any given point where the nearest military units are. We know about every aircraft, every seafaring vessel, every boat, plane, train and automobile. That also includes a visual linkup, so when we’re in range we’ll be able to fly at a ceiling of twenty-thousand feet and still look in the eyes of a sentry walking the ship.”

  Lyons whistled. He’d been trained on a lot of the stuff, but mostly it had been high-level overviews given by bespectacled students from MIT, the NSA or the Pentagon in some generic classroom setting. Most of it didn’t make a lick of sense, but Brognola insisted on cross-training for all three members. That part of it Lyons understood, even if he didn’t like it. If one of them was weak in a particular area, then that weakened the entire team, and yet Lyons just couldn’t seem to get himself interested. He knew he should set the example as a leader, but then he figured Gadgets and Pol were interested enough in the stuff to keep up on it. If he happened to lose both of them in a mission then he had no team, and there was nothing weaker than a team that didn’t even exist.

  “So you’re saying that when we encounter these freighters we’ll actually be able to see them? Not just their infrared signatures or blips on a computer screen, but actual physical bodies?”

  “Pretty much,” Schwarz replied.

  “That’s damned impressive, indeed,” Lyons replied. “I didn’t think such a little box could do all that.”

  “Oh, yes, and it can do a hell of a lot more. But now I have to run some tests and I can’t show them to you. But we can talk more about it later.”

  Lyons nodded, and left Schwarz to the job.

  During Lyons’s brief phone conversation to the airport, Brognola had told him of his talk with the President, the Man’s choice to involve Lusk in the meet, and the findings of Phoenix Force and death of Jeanne Marais. And Lyons could only conclude that not a damn bit of it added up.

  First, there was the decoy to consider. The Qibla had gone to considerable lengths to throw any would-be pursuers off their track, and yet they had been sloppy enough to leave allegedly critical intelligence behind. Second, they weren’t a large outfit by any means, and yet they had decided to pool all of their resources for this mission. So they weren’t a big group, but the threat they posed was monumental. Lyons had read up on the effects of the cholinesterase poison, and it wasn’t nice. They would definitely have their hands full if they got exposed to the stuff.

  In response to their initial intelligence reports, Brognola had insured the issuance of chemical suits to all the field team members. Lyons had to admit that had been a wake-up call for him. He couldn’t be exactly certain of all the possible variables where this attack was concerned, but he knew what it would mean for the country if the terrorists were even partially successful.

  There was a low beeping sound in the cabin, and it startled Lyons from his thoughts. The Able Team leader realized he’d been dozing. He tongued away the pastiness in his mouth, shook his head to clear the cobwebs, then the voice of Charlie Mott filled the cabin.

  “Ironman, it’s David McCarter on the horn for you, Priority One channel.”

  Lyons grabbed a headset off the nearby rack, donned it and keyed up to the standard secure frequency. “It’s me.”

  “Enjoying your nap time, mate?” the Briton’s voice replied.

  “At least I didn’t get some cushy vacation in South Africa,” Lyons replied.

  “I’ll trade you anytime you’d like.”

  “No, thanks. I like this side of the world better.”

  “I can’t argue with a bloke like you on that one,” McCarter said cheerily.

  “So, I take it you didn’t call to whisper sweet nothings in my ear.”

  “Actually, no. I called to tell you that T.J. came up with what we all agree is a solid theory, and since last word from the chief was that we coordinate directly with you, I think you better hear this.”

  “Uh-oh,” Lyons said. “I can tell just by the sound of your voice that I’m not going to like this.”

  “Mate, you don’t know the bloody half of it,” McCarter replied.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Mediterranean Sea

  Not quite six hundred kilometers off the coast of Tel Aviv-Yafo, Commander Jarred Blankenship—a commanding officer in the British Royal Navy—stood on the bridge of his destroyer and studied the oncoming freighter. Standing next to Blankenship was Lieutenant Commander Edsel Bedford, the ship’s executive officer.

  “Has she answered her hail to full stop for inspection?” Blankenship asked.

  “No, sir,” Bedford replied. “That was why I summoned you, sir.”

  Blankenship didn’t reply, but instead lowered the binoculars and grunted. This was quite odd, although not any more peculiar than other situations he’d encountered since being assigned to the Mediterranean. Actually, he had to admit that he liked his assignment. Blankenship would have never admitted it openly to anyone outside of his wife, Mary, but he found the climate and easygoing lifestyle preferable to the cold, stuffy environment back home in London. In fact, he’d spent the previous evening having dinner at the NATO fleet admiral’s home, and considerable time charming the man in hopes of retaining another tour of duty here.

  However, he now had more pressing matters demanding his attention. In most cases this type of situation was usually the result of either a malfunction in a communication system, or a ship that, in addition to its standard cargo—which should have undergone rigorous inspection at the Strait of Gibraltar check station—might be smuggling a spot of contraband to avoid customs fees. Such contraband might include anything from liquor to magazines to cigarettes or cigars. Blankenship took one more look at the freighter through the binoculars. The freighter still hadn’t slowed, and it now appeared as if she were planning to glide right past his ship just like it was nobody’s business. Well, they couldn’t bloody well have commercial freighters just buzzing around the Mediterranean and refusing to answer to Her Majesty’s Royal Navy.

  “Number One, send the call for general quarters,” Blankenship said. He then turned and went to a ship-to-shore phone. It would connect him directly with the harbor master in Tel Aviv-Yafo. When the harbor master’s office answered, he said, “This is Commander Jarred Blankenship of Her Majesty’s HMS Newcastle. We are currently tracking a freighter that is refusing to answer hails or requests to stop.”

  He gave them the freighter’s registration number, then requested to be connected with the fleet admiral as per standard operating procedure. It was a time-wasting process, but Blankenship also knew it was a precautionary one. Since the involvement of a number of countries in NATO had expended efforts to provide a security presence in the Medi
terranean, protection of the political environment had seemed to become preferable to maintaining a show of military security and force to would-be privateers, saboteurs and terrorists. One didn’t flex muscles here without regard for the rights of commercial shippers who delivered vital supplies to a number of the more disadvantaged and unfortunate cultures in the “fertile crescent” of the world.

  “Admiral Stalworthe speaking.”

  “Sir,” Blankenship began, “this is Commander Jarred Blankenship of HMS Newcastle.”

  “Yes, of course,” the admiral said in an almost congenial tone. “How are you, Commander? We did enjoy dinner with you so much last night. I was just telling my wife again this morning how impressed I am with your knowledge of RN strategies.”

  “Yes, thank you, sir…very kind of you to say so, sir,” Blankenship said, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice. “But I’m afraid I’m calling on a business of some urgency, sir. I wouldn’t use an official line for any other purpose.”

  The admiral cleared his throat. “Of course not, Commander, and I would never assume such. What seems to be the problem?”

  “Sir, I have an R-class commercial freighter approximately three hundred meters off my port bow that despite all attempts at communication refuses to reply for spot inspection. According to information in our computer systems, she left the day before last from Cape Town and listed her final destination as Israel.”

  “And you say she’s refusing her call to heave to?”

  “Aye, sir,” Blankenship replied. “Now, she has made no hostile move, but she isn’t stopping, either.”

  “It sounds like a simple communications malfunction.”

  “That was my initial assessment, as well, sir, but with the sun setting shortly, the nighttime wouldn’t be a good point for a ship to be without communications. I also considered it strange that any such malfunction wasn’t discovered in Gibraltar. She would have undergone significant inspection at Checkpoint Gibraltar before ever being allowed to enter our sector.”