Sensor Sweep

  “OUR SHIP IS NEAR AMERICA AND CAN LAUNCH ITS MISSILE.”

  McCarter laughed mockingly, not wanting to believe the terrorist leader, but deep down knowing that the man spoke the truth.

  “Oh, yes, you know it’s true,” al-Warraq said. “I would say that in approximately ten minutes there will be widespread death in the city called Dallas. Yes, I would think many people will die.”

  Manning appeared at the door to the bridge. “What’s he talking about?”

  “He’s claiming they got the missile off and it’s going to hit Dallas.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Manning stated. “Ironman wouldn’t let that happen.”

  “Believe it,” Encizo said, holding a headset to his ear. “I’ve just checked a secure channel. They’ve scrambled a response team. God help them all.”

  Other titles in this series:

  #18 STINGER

  #19 NUCLEAR NIGHTMARE

  #20 TERMS OF SURVIVAL

  #21 SATAN’S THRUST

  #22 SUNFLASH

  #23 THE PERISHING GAME

  #24 BIRD OF PREY

  #25 SKYLANCE

  #26 FLASHBACK

  #27 ASIAN STORM

  #28 BLOOD STAR

  #29 EYE OF THE RUBY

  #30 VIRTUAL PERIL

  #31 NIGHT OF THE JAGUAR

  #32 LAW OF LAST RESORT

  #33 PUNITIVE MEASURES

  #34 REPRISAL

  #35 MESSAGE TO AMERICA

  #36 STRANGLEHOLD

  #37 TRIPLE STRIKE

  #38 ENEMY WITHIN

  #39 BREACH OF TRUST

  #40 BETRAYAL

  #41 SILENT INVADER

  #42 EDGE OF NIGHT

  #43 ZERO HOUR

  #44 THIRST FOR POWER

  #45 STAR VENTURE

  #46 HOSTILE INSTINCT

  #47 COMMAND FORCE

  #48 CONFLICT IMPERATIVE

  #49 DRAGON FIRE

  #50 JUDGMENT IN BLOOD

  #51 DOOMSDAY DIRECTIVE

  #52 TACTICAL RESPONSE

  #53 COUNTDOWN TO TERROR

  #54 VECTOR THREE

  #55 EXTREME MEASURES

  #56 STATE OF AGGRESSION

  #57 SKY KILLERS

  #58 CONDITION HOSTILE

  #59 PRELUDE TO WAR

  #60 DEFENSIVE ACTION

  #61 ROGUE STATE

  #62 DEEP RAMPAGE

  #63 FREEDOM WATCH

  #64 ROOTS OF TERROR

  #65 THE THIRD PROTOCOL

  #66 AXIS OF CONFLICT

  #67 ECHOES OF WAR

  #68 OUTBREAK

  #69 DAY OF DECISION

  #70 RAMROD INTERCEPT

  #71 TERMS OF CONTROL

  #72 ROLLING THUNDER

  #73 COLD OBJECTIVE

  #74 THE CHAMELEON FACTOR

  #75 SILENT ARSENAL

  #76 GATHERING STORM

  #77 FULL BLAST

  #78 MAELSTROM

  #79 PROMISE TO DEFEND

  #80 DOOMSDAY CONQUEST

  #81 SKY HAMMER

  #82 VANISHING POINT

  #83 DOOM PROPHECY

  DON PENDLETON

  STONY MAN®

  AMERICA’S ULTRA-COVERT INTELLIGENCE AGENCY

  SENSOR SWEEP

  To the men and women of the United States Coast Guard

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  PROLOGUE

  South African coastline

  The caves were dark and damp, the perfect place to hide a small army.

  That was just one of the many things Major Kern Rensberg had learned about his surroundings. A native of Cape Town, which was less than an hour drive from his current position, Rensberg had never considered someone might use the lower hills and caves of Table Mountain for such a purpose.

  At first, Rensberg’s superiors in the Intelligence Division of the South African National Defense Force had chosen to avoid matters of national security, since that kind of work was left primarily to the South African Secret Service. Rensberg’s branch focused on domestic intelligence or with matters that threatened military stability. But at Rensberg’s insistence, his superiors finally let him pursue his theory that a new terror cell was operating in the country with strict orders to return in thirty days or less with tangible proof.

  Below his observation point, a massive ledge that overlooked the cavern, teams of men were busily unloading trucks stored with a variety of sensitive electronic equipment and materials that Rensberg’s experience told him could only be used for building portable launching pads. In the midst of the busy group stood a tall, bearded man in a scarlet kaffiyeh and wearing on his arm an emblem of the Kaabar, the symbol of the Qibla organization.

  Rensberg had become quite familiar with this man over the past several weeks. His name was Jabir al-Warraq, and while he claimed to be a peaceful member of the Qibla organization—appearing quite often at their demonstrations across Cape Town and other South African cities—Rensberg knew an entirely different man. Al-Warraq was anything but peaceful. The major had it on good authority that this particular man was responsible for the deaths of at least a dozen innocent citizens.

  Over the past three weeks Rensberg had based his entire theory of a potential terrorist plot on the comings and goings of al-Warraq. He knew everything about the man, including his background, his associates, his habits and even the number of women with whom he kept company. In fact, Rensberg had a diary with him and detailed everything regarding one Jabir al-Warraq, and it now seemed he would see a return on his diligence.

  Despite the activity, Rensberg kept his eye on al-Warraq, and the arrival of a new man—one that Rensberg had never seen before—commanded his attention. It surprised the South African to see the two men embrace in a very warm and traditional fashion, but the noise generated by the men working in the seaside cavern drowned the details of their conversation. Rensberg knew they were speaking in Arabic, a language in which he was fluent, but he could only catch a word here and there. Rensberg shifted slightly on the ledge, moving just enough to get his digital camera into position. He snapped several shots, hopeful that the portable lamps they had set up below illuminated the camera enough to adequately light the exposures. Rensberg took about ten shots—three of al-Warraq and the new arrival, and the remainder of the operation. When he’d completed that task, he returned the digital camera to the deep, well-padded hip pocket of his fall parka and then withdrew a notebook. After making several notations, he replaced the notebook.

  But in that moment he also dislodged a rock and some loose gravel that spilled over the side of the ledge. Rensberg turned to watch the rock fall, involuntarily grinding his teeth and sucking in his breath. In spite of the noises in the cavern, there was no question he’d given away his position even as he listened to the rock bounce and clatter down the face of the ledge. Al-Warraq and his visitor turned and locked eyes with Rensberg.

  Time to move.

  The South African scrambled to his feet and raced for the tiny opening in the cavern thr
ough which water had once flowed. Fortunately the ledge wasn’t accessible from the central part of the cavern, so the terrorists had apparently been unaware of the existence of the hole. Rensberg could feel the thumping in his chest and the blood rushing in his ears as adrenaline kicked his heart into high gear. He practically slid through the narrow hole, cutting his hands on the smooth, razor sharp sandstone. He squeezed his tall, lithe frame through and nearly continued over the side of the ledge. That led to a drop that ended on boulder-size outcroppings, worn smooth by years of crashing waves in Table Bay.

  Rensberg continued carefully but with due haste along the ledge and soon reached where it branched off to an incline that led onto a wide, flat ledge. His hard rubber soles slipped on the sandstone slick with an earlier sprinkle. As he topped a rise he was surprised to see a half dozen or so Qibla hardmen rushing toward him armed with wicked-looking machine pistols. Rensberg quickly scanned the area for cover but discovered the terrorists had cut off his escape route.

  The South African wheeled and headed back toward the ledge, hopeful that he could find another way out of this situation.

  The major slipped and slid down the ledge, suffering abrasions to his hands as he worked to steady himself and prevent complete loss of footing. The ledge appeared and he jumped onto it, then headed in the direction of the hole. Perhaps it would buy him additional time. He knew the terrorists could put only one man on the ledge at a time, which would slow them as a group.

  The South African stopped short when he saw the man al-Warraq had been talking to emerge from the hole. It was startling, this predicament in which he now found himself. He couldn’t understand how the man could have possibly climbed the sheer wall of a twenty-foot cliff. Even more disconcerting was that the short, swarthy man with the long beard reached to the scabbard on his left side and withdrew a slender knife. Rensberg estimated the blade was a foot to eighteen inches in length, curved, and it appeared to be razor-sharp.

  Rensberg reached behind him and lifted the tail of the parka to grasp the butt of his Vektor SP-1 sidearm. The grip felt comforting, and Rensberg couldn’t resist a smile of relief.

  The Arab shook his head in a barely perceptible fashion. “You smile at me to mask your true fear.”

  “I’m just wondering why a little chap like you would think it so easy to take me,” Rensberg said as he drew his pistol. “I believe there is a saying, ‘never bring a knife to a gunfight.’”

  The man spit at Rensberg’s feet. “A filthy, American saying. But it does not matter because you shall not live to see the sun set.”

  Rensberg reacted to the man’s sudden movement by squeezing off a round. He missed. His adversary’s reaction was lightning-swift. He’d never been much of a shot. He tossed a capsule at the South African, then ducked into the hole.

  Rensberg looked down as the object struck his chest and exploded. Something splashed into his eyes, some kind of gritty liquid, and he immediately began to rub at them. The fluid burned his eyes, but not intensely; it had more the effect of salty or chlorinated water.

  As his vision cleared and the world came back into focus, Rensberg’s scalp began to tingle, then he started to sweat. His heart was still beating rapidly from the physical exertion, but his breathing seemed unaffected. The burning sensation had stopped, but Rensberg was beginning to feel odd. He was beginning to feel woozy, then his vision started to blur again. Rensberg shook his head and could feel something wet and warm leaking from his eyes. He reached his hand to clear them again and was shocked to see he’d come away with blood tinged with streaks of yellow.

  The sweating increased and the warmth in his crotch caused him to realize he had suddenly relieved himself. A foul odor assailed his nostrils, then his extremities began to convulse uncontrollably, first his arms and then his legs. But through his still blurry and rapidly dimming vision he could see the man had emerged from the hole once more and he could hear the man begin to laugh.

  BLOOD, SWEAT AND other bodily secretions began to ooze from the infidel dog, Mahmed Temez saw, and he couldn’t resist the urge to laugh. God had guided his hand when he tossed the capsule filled with Jabir’s latest triumph. The chemical, code-named “musrah,” acted quickly and effectively. Musrah didn’t know mercy or remorse, friend from foe.

  This would be an abomination of desolation unlike any foretold in the Christian Bible. This would go beyond anything, any victory they had known before, and it would earn every member of his cousin’s organization a rightful place in Paradise.

  So Temez watched with satisfaction as the man convulsed and bled and sweat and soiled himself. And he danced too closely to the ledge, but before Temez could act, the man toppled over the side. Temez watched helplessly but not without some fatalistic interest as the body bounced off the cliff face several times before smashing into the rocks below.

  “Mahmed!”

  Temez looked up to see al-Warraq approach. The look in his cousin’s eyes, the reddening of his face, told the entire story. Al-Warraq obviously wasn’t happy with the circumstances. The Qibla leader looked over the ledge and then pinned Temez with a disgusted look.

  “You were not supposed to kill him,” he said quietly.

  “My apologies, cousin, but he would have shot me if I hadn’t done something. But it isn’t without value. This man reacted just as expected to musrah. It works.”

  “Of course it works,” al-Warraq replied, not without a mocking hint of satisfaction in his voice. “And it shall also work when we complete our plans.”

  Temez nodded, excited by the thought that soon, they would embark on their journeys. He peered over the ledge and said, “What of the body?”

  Al-Warraq shook his head. “The tide will come soon and wash it away. And even if it is discovered, the water will have washed away any evidence. It will look like a simple accident.”

  Temez nodded. “Then perhaps we should go. There is still much to do.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Stony Man Farm, Virginia

  Once again Harold Brognola had gotten the go-ahead from the President of the United States to call together the toughest and bravest men on Earth to face down a major threat against the world.

  Able Team assembled first, since Rosario Blancanales had already been at the Farm and was resting following minor injuries received in his last mission. It didn’t take long for them to recall Carl Lyons and Hermann Schwarz, who were camping in the nearby Blue Ridge Mountains.

  The men of Phoenix Force, on the other hand, were returning from a mission in Buenos Aires when Stony Man got the call to action, and even at top speed it still took nearly eighteen hours for them to arrive. The weariness was evident in their faces.

  The lights in the War Room snapped out, everyone got quiet and then a flickering appeared at the doorway. Suddenly, Barbara Price’s lilting voice broke into a rendition of “Happy Birthday,” which was quickly joined by the rest of the team, some on key and others horrendously not. Still, the spirit of the moment surprised Brognola, particularly when he remembered the festivities were for him. He shook his head and smiled self-consciously.

  By the time they finished singing, Price had walked forward and reached him with the very large cake topped with candles. Brognola stared at it a moment, then his eyes took in every face. He supposed he should say something based on the looks he was getting, but he wasn’t sure he could find a voice to do so. As they continued to stare at him expectantly, the big Fed’s heart softened so much that he had a difficult time choking back the unsteadiness in his voice.

  He cleared his throat to cover and said, “They say that the difference between friends and family is that you get to pick your friends. Today, I realize that’s not always true. I am a very fortunate man, not only because of my family and health but also because of you, my extended family. Each and every one of you are the best. Thanks for remembering my birthday.” Most of the rapt expressions gave way to smiles as he gave the group another pass, and then concluded, “Now enough of
this sentimental stuff. Let’s have some cake!”

  Everyone in the room broke into hoots and cheers. A moment later Lyons rose, purposefully strode to Brognola, bent and kissed the Stony Man chief on top of the head. Uproarious laughter rippled through the room as Lyons returned to his seat, David McCarter and Gary Manning slapping him on the back as he passed by. Brognola just shook his head while shaking his fist at Lyons, but then he couldn’t keep up the facade and joined in the laughter.

  As it started to quiet with the consumption of cake, Price took a seat and put her hand on Brognola’s forearm. Quietly she said, “Hal, Mack really wanted to be here, but he got logjammed on a personal mission and just couldn’t make it in time. He said he hoped you’d understand—” she slid a small, plain box in front of him “—and he told me to make sure you got this.”

  Just a small, simple box, and yet Brognola couldn’t imagine what was inside. Finally, after a nod and knowing smile from Price, Brognola lifted the lid, then gingerly lifted the brand-new pocket watch from the case. The spring mechanism of the cover jumped aside effortlessly with the press of an elegant release nestled into the top. Buried in the face beneath the precise gold hands was the image of an all too familiar symbol: an Army marksman’s medal.

  “There’s something engraved on the back,” Price told him.

  Brognola turned it over and read the inscription, which was engraved in script lettering. It read, “To Him Who Lives Largest: Happy Birthday, Old Friend. MB.”

  Brognola was shocked, unable to speak for having received such a generous and classic gift from a man to whom he owed much more than was ever repayable. Still, Bolan never seemed to take that into account. In the Executioner’s eyes there was no account, and this was his own unique way of saying so.

  Brognola grinned. “Make sure after we’re finished here that we find a way to contact him. If the poor guy can’t be here for the festivities, the least I can do is to thank him personally.”

  Price nodded and then turned her attention to the teams. “Okay, we’d better get started. You can eat and listen at the same time.”