Sensor Sweep

by Don Pendleton

  Temez reached the bridge in short order and took the satellite phone from where Bhati had left it. There was no sign of his aide, so Temez figured he had to have fallen behind during their jaunt to the bridge.

  “Jabir, peace to you, my brother,” Temez said, hoping that good nature would perhaps quell the blow of any potential bad news.

  “Peace to you, cousin,” al-Warraq replied. “I have some unfortunate news. I am afraid that the Thurayya has been captured by NATO forces. I do not know the details, but I am confident that Fahd Abufatin is now either dead or in the hands of our enemies.”

  Temez nodded in understanding, even though he knew al-Warraq couldn’t see him. “I understand. It would seem reasonable to assume that they probably know of our plans. I believe we must consider accelerating the operation.”

  “That is my belief, as well. I also do not know how successful we will be. My spies tell me that there is a British naval blockade forming at the edge of the English Channel. We are going to try to go around it, but I do not know if we will be successful. When will you be within effective range of your own target?”

  Temez let his eyes quickly scan the navigational panels in front of him, and a smile crept over his lips. He checked his watch and realized that they were within the window. “I could release at any time now. It would simply be a matter of reprogramming the coordinates into the navigational cone of the warhead. We have made excellent time.”

  “That’s good,” al-Warraq replied. “Your ship is a fine vessel. I think you took the pick of the lot. However, I would suggest that we keep to our plan unless we agree it has become infeasible, since it means the greatest chance of success. I expect my own ship to be in range within the hour. I will contact you as soon as we’re in position.”

  “I understand,” Temez said. “We will remain on course until I hear from you. Allah be with you, my brother.”

  “And with you.”

  Temez heard the click of a dying connection in his ear, then set the satellite phone in the charging cradle. That had not been good news at all. With the Thurayya out of commission, they had reduced their chances of striking a successful target by thirty-three percent! Before Temez could consider the next viable course of action, Bhati caught up with him and the look in his eyes told Temez that the impact of the news was written all over the terrorist leader’s face.

  “What is it, Mahmed?” Bhati asked.

  “The Thurayya was captured by our enemies a few hours ago. She will not be participating in our victory. It is believed that Fahd Abufatin may have been killed, and Jabir and I agree that this could mean that those who would oppose us may know of our plans. We are accelerating the operation.” For a moment Temez didn’t say anything, still shocked by the fact that so many had been lost already and they hadn’t fired a shot.

  Temez shook himself and continued. “We must be ready to fire the missile within the hour. Get the men assembled and—”

  The sound of gunfire interrupted him and he exchanged looks with Bhati before both of them nearly tripped over each other to get out the door and onto the observation catwalk of the bridge tower. Temez didn’t see anything at first, but a moment later he watched as several of the sentries on the deck immediately below him took cover behind whatever they could find. His angle didn’t afford him a view of what they were shooting at, but there was evidently an intruder aboard the ship.

  “We are under attack! Take your men and lead them into battle, Karif. Kill your enemies. They must not survive this day!”

  “What about the missile?”

  “I will take care of the missile!” Temez waved him off. “Now go and defend our vessel!”

  The man turned and rushed for the steps leading to the deck. Temez turned and entered the bridge once more. He ordered the helmsman to continue full speed ahead no matter what happened, then advised the bridge crew to seal themselves inside the bridge once he had gone. He went to a lockbox containing the passports and other information he had brought in the event he needed to make an escape. He had no intention of perishing this day.

  No, Mahmed Temez would succeed in his mission for Allah and his people. And there wasn’t anyone who could stop him. He would fire the missile now, and have to hope that Jabir could forgive him and try to understand his reasons at a later date. Temez wondered as he stuffed his pockets with the fake credentials and identification who the invaders were, although it was of no real consequence. Whoever had dared to oppose him had made a critical error in judgment. He wasn’t a weak-minded fool like Abufatin had been, a man who could not think for himself. To the contrary, Temez was a soldier first and foremost, and one who would go to any lengths to complete his mission.

  And most importantly, it was simply not his appointed time to die.

  “‘NOBODY CAN RESIST being distracted by a beautiful body’ you said,” Carl Lyons mocked as a flurry of 7.62 mm slugs buzzed over their heads. “Yeah, this was some plan, Wizard.”

  “What are you complaining about?” Schwarz replied.

  Rosario Blancanales watched as Schwarz slammed a fresh magazine into his SIG Model 551. A carbine variant of the Stgw 90 adopted by the Swiss armies, the SIG 551 was very lightweight and chambered 5.56 mm cartridges from magazines with sides that could be clipped together. This permitted the carrier to effect a magazine change out without taking time to reach for spares, one of the chief reasons Schwarz chose the weapon.

  Lyons scowled, obviously miffed at his teammate’s reply, then leaned to the side of the crates the trio was crammed behind. He leveled the pair of MP-5s he’d chosen for the mission and squeezed their triggers simultaneously. The air came alive with the reports from the machine pistols as Lyons kept heads down with a firestorm of 9 mm Parabellum rounds. He burned off both magazines in a matter of seconds, then dropped behind cover to reload.

  “Well,” Blancanales said, “we can’t hold them off forever. I guess it’s up to me.”

  He grinned as he popped a high-explosive grenade into the M-203 launcher mounted beneath the grips of his M-16. The high-explosive charge would take care of business quick enough, and if he left anyone out on the first go-around, the Able Team commando would definitely make sure he included them in trial number two. He came to his feet in a single motion, aimed the weapon from the hip for added stability and triggered the launcher. The 40 mm bomb sailed over the various objects in its path and came down just to the rear of the main assemblage of terrorists. The grenade exploded on impact, washing over the unsuspecting group with a destructive fury. Heat, smoke and intense flames engulfed the men furthest from the hit point, while the primary blast blew apart a number of others.

  Blancanales took advantage of the carnage by following up with a second grenade just as planned. This one he delivered near the base of the bridge tower, putting a massive, scorched dent in the side that was mixed with the gory remains of two terrorists caught directly with the blast. Superheated shards of metal winged across the deck, a few of them contacting flesh while others sailed into the ocean and were extinguished. A shower of sparks followed this second blast, an indication that there had been some effect on the electrical system.

  Just for good measure, the Able Team veteran put a third grenade into the launcher and this time aimed for an area just behind where he’d planted the first two. As he triggered the weapon he could make out a terrorist standing there, a leader perhaps, shouting orders to the men scrambling to find some kind of adequate cover. There wasn’t a lot of that to be found on the deck of a commercial freighter. The terrorist apparently realized just a millisecond before the grenade hit that he was about to die, because Blancanales could actually see his eyes widen in shock and horror. A moment later, there was very little left to see as the grenade blew him and two other nearby terrorists to bits.

  “Nice work, Politician,” Schwarz said. His expression didn’t do a thing to hide how impressed he was.

  “How I love the M-203,” Blancanales replied. “Let me count the ways.”
/>   “Count them later,” Lyons said. “We have work now. Come on.”

  The Able Team warriors moved forward, obscured by the intense smoke and heat enveloping the port side of the deck near the bridge tower. Blancanales knew they would only have a minute or so to find a way to the missile before the terrorists regrouped. The sea breezes would make short work of the smoky devastation. Despite Lyons’s sentiments, getting on board had been pretty easy. Schwarz’s distraction had worked like a charm. They approached on the aft port side of the freighter and came aboard, leaving their ascension rope tied to the raft so the freighter could tow it. They had no idea if they’d need it later to get off the ship in a hurry, so they were planning for every eventuality.

  What they hadn’t counted on was the diligence of a pair of sentries. They had taken them down quickly but that ultimately led to attracting the attention of a few others, which provoked the firefight. So it really wasn’t Schwarz’s fault that they had been detected; it was simply part of the game.

  They continued toward their target, Schwarz having identified the missile as being in the forward cargo hold. They were nearing the hatch when two terrorists sprinted around the corner of the bridge tower and spotted them. They started firing their AK-47s, muzzles flashing as the guns barked with their distinctive reports, but Able Team dived to the deck in time to avoid the onslaught of merciless slugs.

  Lyons replied in kind by rolling, getting to one knee and triggering the MP-5s. The 9 mm Parabellum rounds drilled into both targets. One terrorist’s head exploded under Lyons’s expert marksmanship. The man’s body staggered to and fro, struggling for balance, before finally dropping to the deck. The second terrorist took several rounds to the chest. They continued out the back and the impact spun the terrorist, slamming him face-first to the deck.

  “Clear!” Lyons shouted.

  Blancanales and Schwarz scrambled to their feet and went to the hatchway while Lyons covered them. They quickly got it opened and Schwarz was the first to descend. Lyons started to rise and rush the hatch when a terrorist came seemingly out of nowhere and triggered his AKSU-74, the weapon chattering as rounds danced at Lyons’s feet. The blond warrior changed direction as he was running and tripped, the only thing that saved his life as rounds burned the air overhead. One caught him in the meaty part of the shoulder.

  Blancanales was in such a position inside the hatchway that he couldn’t bring his rifle up and acquire the target in time. His hand rocketed to shoulder leather and came away with the Glock 26. He triggered three rounds successively, a double tap for the body and a third for the head; all three connected. The terrorist’s weapon went skyward, and he continued to fire even as the head shot punched him between the eyes and sent him falling backward. The remaining rounds in the AKSU were expended before the terrorist’s body hit the deck.

  “You okay?” Blancanales asked, looking at the wounded shoulder with concern as Lyons pulled away his hand, now slick with blood.

  “I’ve been better, but I’ll make it,” Lyons said. “Let’s keep moving.”

  Blancanales nodded and assisted his friend into the hatchway, then descended the rest of the way and closed the hatch behind him. He slammed the lock-bar in place, which would prevent anyone else from accessing the hatch from above deck. He didn’t relish the idea of getting caught in a crossfire as they descended the ladder-well. Within a minute, they had all made it to the relative safety of the first sublevel deck.

  “Okay, Einstein, which way?” Lyons asked, turning to Schwarz, who now had his equipment out.

  The small device looked like something out of a science-fiction movie but it actually operated on a very simple principle. As Schwarz had explained, the systems aboard the King Air 350 had been able to draw a detailed map of the entire ship based on the previous intelligence they had gleaned. It wouldn’t be a perfect map by any stretch of the imagination, but it would contain enough detailed information that the interface computers at Stony Man could then make a predictability assessment of the general layout. With that accomplished, Schwarz could then use a supplied PDA as a compass, thus providing an effectual way of navigating while in the labyrinthine-like bowels of the freighter.

  “This way,” Schwarz said, motioning for them to follow.

  As they drew nearer to the cargo hold, Blancanales began to sense something he hadn’t sensed earlier. It was subtle at first, nothing he could really put his finger on exactly, but as they got closer to the target it had become more obvious. It was a hum or vibration of some kind, a thrumming sound that seemed to reverberate through the freighter’s structure. They went on another minute or so before he stopped the trio.

  “Hold up,” he said. “There’s something wrong here.”

  Lyons stopped and turned to study his friend with a disbelieving look. “What, you mean beside the fact that a hundred or more bloodthirsty terrorists are somewhere aboard this heap with nothing more on their minds than hunting us down and killing us?” Lyons said.

  “I’m not talking about that,” Blancanales shot back. He was becoming a bit exasperated with Lyons’s grouchiness. “I’m talking about that sound. Don’t you hear it?”

  “No,” Schwarz interjected, looking up at the ceiling. “I don’t hear anything. What do you hear, Pol?”

  “I’m not sure. It almost sounds like…well, a humming noise.”

  Lyons rolled his eyes. “Oh, boy, he finally has lost it. Look—”

  Blancanales shushed him. “Listen! Do you hear it?”

  This time the two men stopped and listened carefully. They knew that Blancanales had the senses of a jungle cat. He wouldn’t have risked stopping them if it was unimportant. This time, though, the humming was getting louder. It sounded like machinery, a cycling of some type, and then it hit Blancanales like a sharp knife through the belly. A cold lump formed instantly in his throat and the first thing he envisioned was a piled mass of dead bodies. The cargo lift!

  “It’s coming from the cargo bay!” he shouted. “They’re moving the missile into position. They’re going to fire that thing now!”

  And then the corridor ahead of them filled with terrorists.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  North Atlantic

  The mouth of the Bay of Biscay loomed directly ahead and Jabir al-Warraq considered his options.

  They were within a hundred nautical miles of where they had to be in order to launch the missiles. The difficulty now was the naval blockade. There were just too many ships to expect they could get past the British fleet, and al-Warraq began to wonder if it would have been wiser to listen to Sahar. They could have altered course, but such a radical shift in the Crescent’s course would have most certainly alerted the maritime authorities.

  Not that he and his men were left with a lot of options. They had a couple of choices. One was to launch the missile on a random target and take credit for the attack, but al-Warraq wasn’t entirely sure what that would have accomplished. A launch against a European country would still have disastrous consequences, but al-Warraq doubted it would have the most desirable effect. The Qibla had very specific enemies, and such an attack didn’t seem worth the effort.

  The other option he’d considered was to dock at the nearest port and evacuate the ship, leaving its contents for the military to find along with a booby-trap. al-Warraq ultimately dismissed the idea as pointless and cowardly. He wouldn’t see their efforts come to naught in this operation. The Thurayya had already failed in her mission, and he couldn’t be certain that his cousin would be any more successful. No, there had to be another way and it eventually came to him.

  “The traffic in the bay is heavy at this time of season, with merchant ships bringing their wares and vacationers crowding the beaches,” he told Sahar. “If we could lose the Crescent in that heavy traffic, we might stand a chance of getting close enough to the northern shores to come within range of our target.”

  Sahar appeared to consider the idea for nearly a minute, then nodded. “I believe it
is possible as you say, Jabir.”

  “Excellent,” al-Warraq replied. “Change course and get us to the north side of the bay. And do it quickly because the British blockade will be closing soon and sending their advance helicopters to pinpoint our exact position.”

  “As you wish, Jabir,” Sahar replied. The massive Syrian headed for the bridge to carry out his orders.

  Al-Warraq studied the water as it swirled against the freighter, bubbling into whitecaps before disappearing beneath the massive wake of the ship. It was so pure and clean, unlike the world he lived in. Al-Warraq had fallen from the Islamic faith many years earlier because of the impurity of life. It was an impossible task to live by the rules of Islam. In many ways, al-Warraq considered the Islamic faith barbaric and arcane. He knew that he risked eternal damnation at death but simultaneously he believed he had been forced to live a kind of damnation here in this plane of existence. There was nothing about his life that he cherished. He had enjoyed the spoiling pleasures of sin, the women and wine, and he had even walked among a very powerful and influential circle of friends.

  But what did that really mean? What had he accomplished in his life outside the collection of wealth and social standing? There was nothing permanent in that any more than there was in his cousin’s ridiculous faith in an ancient religion. Al-Warraq had made it his life’s work to pursue something more and he had eventually determined that the key to happiness and longevity in life was power. But not in the sense of the word such as most might consider it. He wasn’t talking about power as given to useless world leaders or even the kind of power bestowed on monarchs. That was authority, not power. Power in al-Warraq’s mind was the kind that came from an ability to oppress others. He believed that only the most powerful men were those who knew how to use their wits and resources to bend the masses to their will. And that was his absolute goal.