End of Enemies (40 page)

Smitty called, “Damn, Bear, she's moving fast.”

“I know, I see it.”

Thirty knots or better, Bear estimated. He did a quick calculation.
Tsumago
was bearing down on them at a rate of sixty feet per second.

“Slud, gimme a range guess,” Cahil called.

“Make it thirty-five hundred.”

Less than three minutes.
Decide,
Bear
!
Thirty knots was much too fast for a bow hook. Any miscalculation, and they'd end up red smears on the hull. But then again, they'd come this far …

“You boys feel like going for a ride?” he called.

“Damn straight,” said Wilts.

“I was getting bored anyway, boss,” called Smitty.

Cahil grinned and revved the sled's throttle. “Stick close!”

Tsumago
ate up the distance quickly. At five hundred yards Cahil could feel the rumble of her screws in his belly. Four hundred yards … forty seconds to go. The bow lifted and plunged, lifted and plunged, froth hissing against the hull.

“Dump sleds,” Cahil ordered.

In unison, each team member opened the ballast vents on his IDV and let it drop away. Cahil cast a glance over his shoulder and counted seven heads strung out behind him.

The rush of the wave was thunderous now. He could feel it lifting him, pushing him. He scissored his legs to stay on the crest. The hull loomed over him.
Wait
…
wait
…
now
!

He launched himself forward and slammed the MCD against the hull. The magnet stuck, slid a few feet, then held. He released it, let the line slide through his fingers, then clamped down. Water streamed over his head and into his mouth and nose. He coughed, snatched a breath, and pulled himself against the hull.

He felt a double pat on his shoulder: Smitty had secured the anchor.

Cahil looked over his shoulder. One by one, seven black-gloved hands gave the thumbs-up signal. By God, they'd made it!

He leaned out and signaled to Slud, who braced his feet against the hull and pulled out a rubber-coated grappling hook. He swung it once, heaved it over the rail, then gave it a couple of tugs and started climbing.

Aboard Boxcar

Twenty-two miles east of
Tsumago
, Jurens and his team were awaiting Cahil's signal. Frustrated as he was, Jurens knew they were better off than Sierra. As insertion methods went, they had it easy.

At forty million dollars, the MH-53 Pave Low is the most sophisticated helicopter in the world. Manned by two pilots, a flight engineer, and two PJs, or para-jumpers who also serve as loadmasters, the Pave Low is fast, quiet, and as agile as a World War I biplane. Crammed inside a cockpit that would put a James Bond movie to shame are over 900 dials, gauges, and switches with which the pilots monitor the aircraft and its ENS, or enhanced navigation system, which includes forward looking infrared radar, LANTIRN (a low altitude nav/targeting aid) and a communication system comparable to those found on AWACS.

None of this technology improved Jurens's mood, however. Where was Sierra? The distance they had to cover to reach
Tsumago
was daunting, but if there was a way, Bear would find it.

Jurens popped his head into the darkened cockpit. “How're we doing?”

“Fine as long as the coupler stays on-line,” said the pilot. “Hovering this thing manually is a real pain in the ass.” To keep pace with
Tsumago,
every six minutes the pilot was disengaging the coupler and dashing ahead two miles.

“How's our juice?”

“Twenty minutes at most. Whatever we're waiting for better happen soon.”

As if on cue, a light blinked on the engineer's comm panel. “That's them!” said Jurens. “The show's on, Captain. Let's go.”

“Roger. We'll be over the deck in six minutes.”

“Contact Cowboy, tell them we're inbound.”

Jurens went aft where PJs began assembling the fast-rope packs. One of them tapped Jurens on the shoulder and jerked his thumb to the cockpit. Jurens went forward. “What's up?”

“Cowboy gave us the abort,” the pilot said.

“What?”

“It's for real. They want us to turn around.”

“My people are already aboard—”

“Commander, I've got my orders—”

“I want a secure line to Coaldust.” When it was set up, Jurens said into the handset, “Coaldust, this is Boxcar, over.”

“Go ahead, Boxcar.”

Jurens recognized Cathermeier's voice. “General, what's going on?”

“The target boarded a cruise liner. There're hostages involved.”

“Sir, I've got men already aboard.”

“What?” said Cathermeier. “They made it? Sierra's aboard?”

“Affirmative.”

“Stand by.” Cathermeier was back in twenty seconds. “Boxcar, as soon as you have Sierra on tactical, order them out. Search and rescue is en route. Coaldust out.”

The channel went to static. Jurens threw down the handset. “Shit!”

Tsumago

Crouched in the shadows beneath the pilothouse, Cahil led his team aft to the first hatch. He turned the lever, peeked inside, stepped through.

The passageway was empty and dark, aside from red battle lanterns dotting the bulkheads. Spaced between the lanterns were palm-sized yellow emergency buttons. Either these folks were safety fanatics or they were planning for the worst.

“Clear right,” he whispered in his headset.

“Clear left.”

“Six clear.” Slud, the anchor man, eased the hatch closed.

The passageway was bracketed by two ladders. Forward led to the bridge; aft to below decks. “Lead moving,” Cahil whispered. “Aft ladder.”

He led them down. As each man took the rungs, he never stopped moving—turning, scanning, MP5 held at low-ready. At the bottom, they fanned out.

Cahil counted five hatches.
Bunk rooms and mess area.
Next ladder at the end of the passageway.
Last hatch leads to forward cargo.
Using hand signals, he split his team, sending Slud and two men into the bunk rooms, Smitty and three others to the cargo hold. He would disable the radio himself.

He found the radio room hatch partially open, revealing one of the crew sitting in a chair reading a magazine. On the table beside him was a Tokarev pistol. The man turned, saw Cahil, and dove for the Tokarev. Cahil fired. The three-round burst slammed into the man's side, and he crumpled to the floor.

“Boss, Slud here.”

“Go ahead,” whispered Cahil.

“Bunk room and mess clear. Bear, these boys were sleeping with their AKs.”

“Yeah, here, too. Come aft, secure the ladder.”

Cahil was starting on the radio's faceplate screws when he heard a double beep in his ear: tactical radio. He switched frequencies. “Sierra on tac two.”

It was Jurens. “Sit rep, Bear.”

“Second deck secured, we're heading down and forward.”

“Belay that. We're aborting.”

Cahil froze. “Stand by.” He switched channels. “Slud, Smitty, say location.”

“Third deck ladder.”

“Outside the cargo hatch.”

“Hold positions.” Cahil switched back to Jurens. “What's up?”

“There are hostages aboard, Bear. Exfil any way you can. SAR's on the way.”

Hostages
?
Where did they
…
Then he understood:
Tsumago's
diversion.

His first instinct was to go for the rescue. Right now they had the advantage, but once the crew found they'd been boarded, they would button up the ship. On the other hand, Sierra's original plan was shot to hell: They had no intell and no way to evacuate hostages short of tossing them overboard.

“Roger, copy exfil,” Cahil replied. He switched channels. “Sierra, backtrack to me. We're leaving.”

On
Tsumago
's bridge, al-Baz had no idea his ship had been penetrated. His mind was elsewhere.

In less than a day they would slip past the Strait of Gibraltar and into the Mediterranean. Once there, the crew would go to a state of constant readiness, for when news of
Valverde
got out, a boarding attempt would be imminent. This did not concern him. All attempts would either fail or come too late. He allowed himself a smile. All the planning, all the training, was now paying off.

“Sir, you're wanted in the radar room.”

Al-Baz stepped into the alcove. The ESM operator sat hunched over his console. “What is it?”

“I just intercepted a signal, sir.”

“What kind?”

“Radio.” The operator pointed to the scope face, which showed a green spoke jutting from the center. “It's scrambled. Bearing two-zero-one, signal strength five.”

That meant the source was within fifty miles. Scrambled transmissions were generally used by only military craft. Was there a unit nearby? al-Baz wondered. If so, was it merely coincidence or something more?

“Energize the radar. Give me a sector search on that bearing.”

The operator did so, marked the screen with a grease pencil, and switched off the radar. There was only one blip. It was dead astern.

“It's small,” said the operator. “Either a boat or an aircraft at low altitude.”

An attack this soon seemed improbable. Nevertheless, here was this craft—whatever it was—shadowing them. That made no sense, though. If an attempt at surveillance, why not use a high-altitude patrol plane or a satellite?

He turned to one of the bridge crew. “Go wake Khalid and Mujad. Tell them to take lookout positions.”

Boxcar

Four minutes,
Jurens thought. Plenty of time for them to get overboard.
Come on,
Bear,
talk to me.
…

A light blinked on the engineer's panel. “Alpha, this is Sierra, over,”

Jurens grabbed the handset. “Go ahead, Bear.”

“Alpha, be advised, we—” The popping of gunfire filled Jurens's headphones. “—taking fire. No casualties, but things—” More gunfire. “—getting hot. Do you copy, Alpha?”

“Roger, Bear. Can you exfil?”

“Gonna be dicey. I wouldn't hold dinner. Stand by this channel. Sierra out.”

“Switch me to Coaldust,” Jurens told the engineer. “Coaldust, Boxcar, over.”

“Go ahead, Boxcar,” said Cathermeier.

Jurens explained Cahil's situation. “Request permission to assist.”

“Negative; stay put. There's nothing you can do for them.”

“Sir—”

“You heard me, Boxcar. Stay where you are.”

Jurens ripped off his headphones. He turned to the pilot. “Captain, how's your service record?”

The pilot grinned. “As clean as new snow. It could stand a few spots.”

Tsumago

Cahil had been leading the team to the ladder when suddenly a crewman trotted down the ladder and landed ten feet in front of them.

Ignoring the AK slung across his chest, the man lunged for an emergency button. Cahil fired, but not fast enough. With two rounds in his chest, the man crashed into the button and slumped to the deck. Sirens began whooping. The lanterns turned to strobes, casting red shadows down the passageway.

“Move!” Cahil ordered. “I'm on point. Smitty, take rear guard.”

Cahil led them up the ladder. At the top he caught a glimpse of movement down the passageway. He ducked back. Bullets ripped into the bulkhead beside him. He side-stepped, firing, as the team climbed the last few rungs and joined him.

Ahead, a pair of heads peeked around the corner, fired, then ducked back. Their fire discipline was good, Cahil saw. No wild spraying, only controlled bursts. He and Slud poured fire down the passageway. They were running out of time. They had the edge, but that wouldn't last long.

“Talk to me, Smitty! Where are you?”

“Second deck. We got company. We're holding, but it ain't good.”

“Understood. Hold for sixty, then break off. We're leaving.”

“Roger.”

Using hand signals, Cahil told the team what he had planned, then plucked a flashbang grenade off his harness. He pulled the pin and tossed the grenade down the passageway, banking it around the corner.

“Cover!”

The team flattened against the bulkhead, eyes down and hands over their ears.

The passageway exploded in blinding light and noise.

Cahil peeked around the corner, saw nothing, then looked down the ladder. Smitty was coming up. His collar was shiny with blood, but he grinned and gave a thumbs-up. Cahil threw open the hatch. He and Slud poured fire down the passageway. One by one, the rest of the team leapt through the hatch. Cahil shoved Slud after them, then followed.

On deck it was like daylight. Spotlights blazed down on them. Past the handrails, Cahil could see nothing but blackness. For a dizzying moment, he felt suspended in a void.

“Target, six o'clock,” yelled Wilts, spinning and firing.

A trio of terrorists crouched on the afterdeck, firing through the arch. Wilts screamed, clutched his stomach, and fell. Cahil snagged his collar and dragged him back against the superstructure. The firing tapered off.

They're thinking it over.
Bear thought.
Figuring out how to come at us.

“Slud, Johnson, douse those lights!
”

Pop,
pop,
pop.
The deck went dark. From above, Cahil heard voices. He looked up in time to see a pair of AK barrels come over the rail and point toward them. Cahil fired, stitching the rail and forcing them back, but they returned a moment later. The deck sparked beneath his feet.

Cahil looked around; both Wilts and Smitty were hit.

“Ideas, boss?” Slud panted.

“We're in a funnel,” Cahil said. “We gotta go forward. We're gonna need more time.” The forecastle would give them more cover and better fields of fire. “We'll take rear guard while the others go overboard.”

Slud nodded and relayed the plan down the line. Johnson heaved Wilts over his shoulder and nodded
ready.
With a mutual nod, Bear and Slud each tossed a flashbang, one through the aft arch, the other high onto the superstructure.

“Go, Jonce!”

As one, the team charged.

The flashbangs bought them the time they needed. By the time the explosions died away, they were on the forecastle, crouched behind the derricks and capstans. Cahil gestured Smitty and the others toward the railing, then crawled over to Slud.

Through the glare of the spotlights, Cahil saw several figures on the bridge wing. He fired. They went down. AKs started chattering. A bullet thunked into the girder beside his head.

“They're coming up the port side, Bear,” Slud said.

“I see him. Just a few more seconds. Smitty's almost over the side.”

Cahil counted muzzle flashes. Two … seven … twelve guns firing now. Bullets whizzed. He took aim on a spotlight and fired; it went out. He glanced over his shoulder: Everyone but Johnson was overboard.

Cahil saw movement above the signal bridge. A trio of terrorists were setting up a MG3 crew-manned machine gun.
West German,
he thought.
A thousand rounds a minute
…

Slud said, “Boss—”

“I see it. Okay, time to go.”

Cahil started toward a nearby capstan, felt a sting in his leg, kept crawling. He looked down. His calf glistened with blood. The pain came a few seconds later, like someone had jammed a hot iron into his leg.

“Bad?” called Slud.

“Not bad enough to keep me here.”

The MG3 started coughing, a deep
chug,
chug,
chug
mixed with the sharper cracks of the AKs. Bullets thudded into the winch drum, showering Cahil and Slud with sparks.

Smart move,
Cahil thought. While the MG kept them pinned down, the rest of the crew could charge onto the forecastle and swarm them. He peeked up and saw figures running up the port weather deck.

“Get moving, Slud!”

“Uh-uh, boss. You're gimped. You'll need a head start and cover.”