“Okay, so any ideas on creating a distraction, or would you like me to improvise?”
“It’s your show,” Encizo said. “Do what comes natural.”
“If I did that, I wouldn’t be here right now,” James said. He extended his hand in a firm grip and added, “Good luck, bro.”
“You too,” Encizo replied.
And then James was gone.
While Encizo waited for his teammate to do his thing, he marked the location of each terrorist and tried to gauge how they would react. Not that it was an easy task, since he didn’t have the first idea what James planned to offer up as a diversion. But whatever it was, it would be unique and original—more importantly, it would be effective.
Across the massive bay smoke suddenly began to roll from an area that wasn’t too far from a set of drums marked as containing jet fuel. They had probably used them to provide fuel to the missile. Another moment elapsed and Encizo heard someone shout, “Fire,” in English, someone who could only be James. A long moment of silence where it seemed to Encizo that time had stood still was followed by absolute pandemonium as the men working on the missile looked at one another with shock, then ran to extinguish the blaze.
Of course, Encizo realized something the terrorists didn’t. James wouldn’t have been stupid enough to actually start a blaze that couldn’t be controlled easily so close to fifty-five-gallon drums filled with volatile chemicals.
Or would he?
Well, Encizo had no intention of finding out firsthand, because, as he had suspected, the diversion was perfect. The controls to the landing platform were left unattended, and after a quick check of his surroundings, Encizo slid from cover and ran, his body in a half crouch and MP-5 tracking ahead, to the target. When he arrived he stopped to check his flank; all the terrorists were obviously busy with the fire. Good, this wouldn’t take long.
The Cuban warrior reached into the explosives satchel and withdrew a quarter-pound stick of C-4 plastique. The explosive was still a modern marvel of military science as far as Encizo was concerned. He’d been in love with the material ever since becoming an underwater demolitions expert, just because of its versatility and effectiveness. C-4 worked off a combination of heat and pressure, but was stable when subjected to one in the absence of another. Despite what they showed on television, shooting at it wasn’t enough to blow the stuff. It was also quite flammable, but if ignited it would just burn. However, using it properly—that being attached to a fuse or some detonation cord—and then tripping the heat-pressure source, it suddenly became clear why C-4 was such an amazing tool.
Encizo withdrew an unsharpened pencil from the bag and shoved it into the end of the C-4 stick lengthwise. He then fitted it with a blasting cap, opened the plate covering the control panel and gently pressed it to the side of the panel. He quickly wired the fuse to a junction box next to the controls and in turn eased the wire through and twisted it against an inside screw of the panel, then sealed it up. The concept was quite simple. The wire running from the junction box was connected to an electrical source. However, the circuit was incomplete. When the time came for the terrorists to engage the lift and they opened the control panel door, the metal wire would touch the frame of the box, complete the circuit and…
A thick forearm suddenly snaked around Encizo’s neck and yanked him backward, instantly and brutally cutting off his air supply. Stars danced immediately in front of his eyes with the sudden trauma, and the power behind the sleeper hold would have him unconscious shortly if he didn’t react. But none of that went through his mind; instead his catlike reflexes took charge and a surge of adrenaline powered his body. Encizo bent forward and simultaneously dropped to one knee, taking his attacker off balance. He then measured that the attacker had his left arm around his neck, so he threw his left shoulder forward and rolled. For the assailant to maintain control, he would have to roll with Encizo. He did, and suddenly the attacker found himself on his back with Encizo on top. The Phoenix Force warrior hammered his opponent in the ribs with a double elbow strike, and the hold abated as the strikes forced air from the terrorist’s lungs.
Encizo rolled away and got to his feet. He saw the terrorist now, rising with hatred in his eyes and an equally nasty-looking knife in his left fist. By his stance alone, Encizo knew he was dealing with an experienced knife fighter. Well, that was just fine, because the Cuban had learned a thing or two of his own over the years. He saw that he’d lost his MP-5 in the assault, which left him with his Colt M-1911 A1 pistol and the Cold Steel Tanto fighting knife.
The knife left its sheath with a rasp.
His enemy’s blade was long and curved, and looked damn sharp. That didn’t bother Encizo too much. It didn’t intimidate him the same way it did most men. The most important thing to remember in a knife fight was that the likelihood of getting cut was high. In fact, Encizo had been cut badly on many occasions. But most cuts weren’t fatal unless vital arteries were hit or the blade coated with poison, and so expecting to take a wound or two was just part of the deal. What ultimately determined the victor in a knife fight was who was most afraid. Fear was the real killer. Fear of being cut or stabbed was what did in the victim, and while having a healthy respect by not underestimating any opponent, Encizo had learned to conquer that fear long ago.
The fighters encircled each other for a long time, each looking for a weakness or opening in their opponent. Finally the terrorist lost his patience and moved in with a low slashing blow. Encizo easily sidestepped, having seen the maneuver many times, and countered with a slashing maneuver to the man’s forearm. The Tanto blade went through the meaty portion of the terrorist’s forearm like a warm knife through butter and opened a gaping wound. It also cut the tendons and forced the man to drop his knife.
The terrorist screamed and grabbed at his forearm, and Encizo launched a front kick that sent him sliding across the slick floor. The terrorist’s body came to a stop and he looked at Encizo, fear now present in his eyes. Encizo rubbed his throat and then, in a single move of showmanship, kicked the man’s knife to him. If the terrorist wanted to go out, Encizo figured he’d at least let him go out like a man.
The terrorist grabbed the knife, gripping it in his left fist, and rose. A pool of blood had formed quickly under his forearm and it dripped hot and fresh as he approached. The fear was gone once more, replaced by anger. Encizo figured that either way this went it wouldn’t be good for the terrorist. The man couldn’t control his fear or his anger, and both were sure killers in a contest of blades.
Encizo made a few feints of stabbing and slashing motions, goading his enemy. The terrorist got clever and used one of the feints to get inside and lay open a long cut on Encizo’s right shoulder. The Cuban barely felt the smooth cut, instead dancing back so as not to expose himself more. The terrorist obviously took this for fear and decided to press the attack. It cost him more than he could have ever surmised. As he came in low, at tempting to stab Encizo in the stomach, the Cuban latched on to his wrist. The Phoenix warrior twisted and delivered an upward slash to the left side of the man’s throat, cutting away arteries, veins and some neck muscles. The terrorist’s eyes nearly popped from his head as he realized he was finished. Blood spurted from the wound with every beat of his heart, its pace more frenetic than usual by the exertion.
The terrorist stood erect and dropped his knife, both hands now moving to the fatal wound to attempt to stem the flow of blood. It would do him little good, and he knew it. He just stood and stared at Encizo. Finally he went to his knees and his eyes began to glaze over. Seconds later he toppled to the deck, dead.
With his mission completed, Encizo collected his weapon and equipment, then set off to find James.
CREATING A DIVERSION FOR his friend came with its own set of problems for Calvin James. The Phoenix Force warrior quickly spied some wooden pallets cast aside, and immediately the idea came to him. He’d quickly tapped each of the barrels of fuel with the blade of his Ka-Bar until he found a fu
ll one, then punctured a hole in the top and then soaked the sleeves he’d cut from the T-shirt beneath his black fatigues. He tossed the two fuel-soaked pieces of cloth between two pallets and a quick touch of a match from his survival kit did the rest.
In the cover of the smoke, James figured he could make good on his escape. All was going as planned; he hoped that the diversion was enough to give Encizo the time and room he needed to wire up the control system. It had been a pretty good idea, and James once more found it difficult not to have the utmost respect for Encizo. The guy was a sharp individual, sharper than many gave him credit for. James found a hatchway leading from the bay into an adjoining cargo hold.
James had expected trouble, but not of this magnitude. He spotted the quartet of gunmen just a moment before they spotted him, and managed to find cover behind a thick, metal filing cabinet. In the light streaming through a number of open hatches far above, James could tell he was in some kind of storage room.
The terrorists reacted with incredible enthusiasm and opened up with their AK-47 rifles, but there was no real attempt on their part to hit their target. For the moment, they seemed content to force James to keep his head down, which meant they were stalling, probably in the hope that if they put him off long enough they could arm the missile and launch it. If Encizo had accomplished the mission, and James had no reason to believe otherwise, then the terrorists were in for quite a surprise. So their strategy of stalling him worked as much for James as it did for the terrorists.
The Phoenix Force warrior brought his M-16 A4/ M-203 into play and slammed home a 40 mm white-phosphorous shell. He was about to teach his would-be Qibla murderers the one significant difference between gunning down a group of innocent bystanders versus going up against an enemy equal to the task.
Calvin James was just such an enemy.
James calculated the approximate area above his head, insured he had adequate cover, and fired the launcher. The weapon boomed in the confines of the storage hold and a moment later it was lit with a flash. The hot phosphorous fell on the area around the terrorists, but as luck would have it James managed to get only one man with the chemical that could turn iron into molten slag, or at least, he could only hear one terrorist screaming. That told him they had changed positions.
James checked the area around him, attempting to calculate the number of possible approaches they might take to surprise him. He didn’t like what he saw—there were too many openings the terrorists could use to their advantage. In fact, one of them tried and James met him head-on with a controlled 3-round burst to the chest. An ugly blood pattern appeared on his shirtfront before the impact slammed him against a nearby crate and then dumped him face-first to the ground.
The terrorist’s assault rifle clattered to the deck and slid in James’s direction. The Phoenix Force warrior heard movement to his left, just around the corner from where his back was pressed to the filing cabinet, so he moved his foot enough to cause the weapon to ricochet off his foot. The sound of movement caused another terrorist to expose himself and open up with a flurry of 7.62 mm rounds. James took the advantage long enough to lean from cover, snap aim and squeeze the trigger twice. A volley of two 3-round bursts caught his opponent at hips and midsection, the M-16 rounds ripping mercilessly through yielding flesh. The terrorist danced backward in surprise, his weapon falling from limp fingers, and collapsed to the deck.
One to go.
James knew he couldn’t hold position here forever. The remaining terrorist would likely get wise to the cluster of bodies in the area and find some way to flank him by weaving through the maze of stored junk. James decided to go one better, and use the junk to his advantage in a move the terrorist was certain not to expect. James leaped onto the filing cabinet and traversed to a tall dressing bureau. He crouched, tracking the area around him with the muzzle of the M-16 A-4, but saw no movement.
The terrorist would eventually show himself and he wouldn’t likely expect James to launch an attack from above. Patience was the key to survival right now, and it eventually paid off. James waited for what seemed like forever, but in this case was only a few minutes, and soon spotted the terrorist who was keeping low and maneuvering his way through the storage-room maze. James froze in place, not breathing. Slowly and agonizingly he eventually let himself exhale as he watched the terrorist continue to search for him to no avail. His opportunity for a clear shot finally came. James slowly and steadily raised the M-16 A-4/M-203 to his shoulder, sighted down the detachable carrying handle, fixed his target and squeezed the trigger. The terrorist never saw it coming. A single SS109 hardball round punched through the man’s upper lip and blew a large chunk of flesh and bone out the base of his neck. The man’s eyes went wide with shock, then he fell. His body trembled and twitched to catch up as his brain had already told him he was dead.
James leaped off the dresser and quickly searched the three terrorists for identification. He found nothing that he believed would be useful. He then located the fourth terrorist, who had fallen victim to the WP grenade. He found the men with his eyes frozen open in mixed expression of horror and pain. A major part of the left side of the terrorist’s skull had been burned away by the deadly chemicals in the grenade. James tried to ignore the ghastly look, to shut out the almost accusatory gaze. Again, he found no ID.
That accomplished, he turned to the task of finding his way out of there and back to the main deck. McCarter would be getting impatient and so would the others. He could still hear the shouting as the men in the adjoining compartment fought to put out the flames of his little diversion. He could even smell the remnants of smoke, although the hatchway leading to that compartment was shut tight. Those particular doors also served as fire doors and could be air sealed by the main systems of the ship if necessary for the very purpose of containing fires to a specific area. That fire wouldn’t keep the terrorists occupied forever, but it would be long enough for him to find his way out.
James didn’t really care where the exit was or how many terrorists he had to go through. It had just suddenly become very important for him to get as far away as he could from the WP victim, to escape that death’s-head expression, to get far removed from those accusatory eyes peering sightlessly from a charred, mutilated skull. Yeah, it was a horrific look, one that James wouldn’t soon forget.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Gary Manning reached the bridge of the ship unmolested, which was probably nothing short of a miracle.
It probably shouldn’t have surprised the big Canadian that much. The terrorists had been ill-equipped and unprepared to deal with a British war-class destroyer like the HMS Newcastle, and they certainly hadn’t expected to have to deal with the arrival of Phoenix Force. Well, wherever they were hiding, Manning intended to make sure neither this ship nor any missile she might carry would reach their respective destinations.
Manning performed a quick inspection of the freighter controls that powered the big ship, then began to rig the panels with high explosives. He was about three-quarters complete with his task when he heard movement at the door. The Canadian whirled and brought his pistol into play, but he relaxed when he assessed he was looking down the slide at the face of T. J. Hawkins.
“Christ, T.J., you trying to get killed?” Manning asked. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”
“I wasn’t sneaking up on anybody,” Hawkins said. “I spotted your ugly mug through the bridge, and figured I’d give you a hand. And why the hell don’t you have someone watching your six anyway?”
“Are you volunteering?” Manning asked, returning to his work as he did.
“In the absence of a better offer, I suppose so.” Hawkins paused a moment, then added, “Sounds like Jack finally reached someone in charge on the Brits’ side.”
“Yeah, I noticed they stopped blowing holes in the sides of this kettle.”
Manning then put the younger warrior out of his mind and focused on the job at hand. He couldn’t be sure what the terrorists had pl
anned, or what creative methods Encizo and James might conjure to attempt to put the missile out of commission, but he couldn’t let that worry him now. McCarter had insisted they devise a failsafe plan in case one or the other sabotage mission proved ineffectual. Not that the Briton didn’t have faith in his people. Since succeeding Yakov Katzenelenbogen, McCarter had proved himself worthy of position as top dog, yet he still valued the opinions of everyone on the team.
“Someone’s coming,” Hawkins whispered.
Manning turned and reached for his pistol again, going to one knee as he did, but Hawkins pretty quickly recovered.
“False alarm,” he called. “It’s only David.”
“Not ‘only David,’ mate,” the Cockney said as he crossed the bridge toward Manning. “Try the one and only.”
“Oh, brother,” Hawkins quipped.
“You heard anything from Rafe or Cal?” McCarter asked Manning.
The Canadian shook his head as he began to stow his equipment. “Nada. But the job’s done here. We can set this off any time you’re ready.”
McCarter looked at Hawkins. “How about you, mate?”
“I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of them,” Hawkins said.
“Well, this is just not turning out to be my day, is it?” The Phoenix Force leader turned and stared hard at Manning. “We may have trouble.”
“Sounds more like it’s James and Rafe who might be having the trouble.”
“It’s a strong possibility, and one I’m going to have to act on if I don’t hear something from them in the next five minutes,” McCarter replied. “They were supposed to check in every fifteen minutes, and they’re now ten overdue the first check.”
Sensor Sweep Page 18
