Sensor Sweep Read online

  Off the Moroccan coast

  JABIR AL-WARRAQ WATCHED as the freighter Thurayya departed for the Strait of Gibraltar. Its final destination: Israel. Thus far, they were proceeding on schedule. al-Warraq had to admit that his confidence in their plan was stronger than it had been when his cousin had first approached him. Still, he couldn’t help but pledge his loyalty and support for the operation. Mahmed Temez was one of Jabir’s few living relatives, most of the remainder having died in defense of his Iraqi homeland in one fashion or another.

  Still, al-Warraq wasn’t motivated by quite the same religious fervor as Mahmed. In some ways he’d fallen from the pure Islamic faith long ago. Al-Warraq was a realist, a product of the times, and not given to the passion and emotions of religious fanaticism. No, this operation was about revenge against a mutual enemy.

  Since moving to South Africa and befriending members of the Qibla, al-Warraq had been profiled by every major police authority in the world. His notoriety and constant scrutiny in the public eye was by design. He’d considered his choices carefully, ultimately realizing that if he were to become actively involved with a small, conceivably nonthreatening group like the Qibla, his visibility would provide the very front he needed to cover his real motives and activities. The spy they had discovered in their cavern hideaway—a man who a short time later he learned was an SANDF agent named Kern Rensberg—had caused him considerable worry.

  Al-Warraq had convinced his cousin to accelerate the operation and launch the freighters immediately, not out of any desire to complete the operation but simply to protect his own assets. Now that there was a chance his most secretive activities would be uncovered, he ran a severe risk of failure. Until now, al-Warraq had managed to use the public profiles as a tool to manipulate others into believing he was a victim of ethnic stereotyping. That would have changed drastically if the South African government had published tangible proof of his affiliations with wanted war criminals, thereby causing supporters to back out and withdraw the funds he so desperately needed to succeed in the operation.

  Good fortune had smiled on al-Warraq to this point, but the terrorist realized that wisdom was founded in practicality, not prayer to an uncaring god. Despite his upbringing, al-Warraq didn’t believe in Allah or the rewards of fighting an Islamic jihad. He was a terrorist, yes, and he knew it. All of his plans and schemes had finally come to fruition, and it was from this point forward that he had to prove his efforts and methods were just as effective as those, like Mahmed, who insisted on supporting what they thought to be a nobler cause.

  When the Thurayya had become just a speck against the Moroccan coastline, al-Warraq turned and headed to the bridge. He found his second in command, Aban Sahar, sitting in the command chair and watching the activities of the helmsman and navigator. As soon as al-Warraq made his presence known, Sahar jumped from the chair and stood stiffly.

  “We can dispense with formalities, Aban,” al-Warraq replied with a wave. “We are freedom fighters, not soldiers.”

  Sahar relaxed, but not entirely. He was unusually tall for an Arab. Syrian-born and raised by a foster family, Sahar was one of the few destined for life as a desert fighter. His foster father had served in the Syrian army, a career officer, and his mother worked as a civil servant as an analyst, a very unusual position of prestige for a woman. Like most Arabs, Sahar had followed in the footsteps of his father and participated in the fighting in Lebanon at the tender age of sixteen. Eventually he’d become discontented with his life, deserted the military and defected from Syria to live in Cape Town. It was then that al-Warraq met the big and impressionable man and eventually convinced him to support his efforts with the Qibla.

  Part of that deal included an understanding that Sahar could act anonymously and with complete autonomy. Eventually, al-Warraq had discovered his friend’s unique abilities and talents for dispensing pain. When anyone threatened their cause to lend aid to terrorist groups, he would dispatch Sahar to apply his distinct methods of persuasion. When that didn’t work, Sahar would simply satisfy his “autonomy”—the word he chose to describe his bloodlust—and murder them in cold blood.

  Like al-Warraq, Sahar also chose not to concern himself with the path to eternal paradise. It was a farce in his mind, which made him particularly useful in al-Warraq’s chosen profession. Sahar had been waiting for this operation many months, and his eagerness to hand down death on such a massive scale was present even now in his coal-black eyes.

  “Our associates are under way for Israel,” al-Warraq announced.

  “Yes.”

  “And yet we’re still sitting here, not moving,” al-Warraq continued. “I assume there is a good reason for that?”

  “We were having some difficulties with the engines,” Sahar replied.

  “But we aren’t now?”

  “No.”

  “Then I would suggest you give the order to get us under way. I have no desire to sit here and wait for them to become wise to our activities.”

  “I was about to give the order to continue, as you request,” Sahar said, “but we have another issue that has recently come to our attention.”

  “And that is?”

  “There are reports that the British have dispatched a battle convoy from one of their southeastern ports. It is a large convoy. We’re told several ships, including an aircraft carrier and destroyers. Our intelligence experts believe its composition signals an armada suitable for blockades.”

  “You think they are on to us,” al-Warraq concluded.

  “It is a possibility we must consider.”

  “To what end?”

  Sahar expressed confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “Do not answer a question with a question, Aban. It is most annoying. I am trying to make a point. You have said we must consider the possibility that the British know of our plans to attack Portsmouth, and that they may attempt to intercept us or the missile. I asked you to what end will this consideration benefit us? Pondering the invariable number of possibilities will not accomplish anything. There is no action in considering possibilities. Do you understand me? The only thing that our enemies understand is action, swift and precise, because it is only until after the action is taken that they discern the message. They have repeatedly demonstrated their inability to accurately predict when or where or how we will strike, and yet we continue to promote the notion that somehow, by some miracle, perhaps, they will spontaneously become enlightened of our methods. The very notion is ridiculous and beneath me. Now, if there are no other issues, let us move this ship and cease any further discussion of insipid and ambiguous details.”

  Al-Warraq noted with twisted satisfaction that the muscles in Sahar’s jaw clenched. There were times when his trusted lieutenant took things a little too far and al-Warraq was forced to put him back in line. There were close friends who had accused him now and again of pontification, but the truth was al-Warraq was simply an educated man. In addition to formal education equivalent to a doctorate in philosophy, al-Warraq was also well-read and extensively traveled. He had walked on every continent, and served as a spokesman for whatever cause would pay him the highest. Men of al-Warraq’s ethnicity didn’t attain such a status easily, and it was less than rare for anyone to win an argument with him.

  Sahar whirled, and in an abusive tone ordered the helmsman to get under way.

  Al-Warraq nodded with satisfaction, then left the bridge to clear his head and take in more fresh air. He didn’t like enclosed spaces. It had taken a considerable amount of discipline to spend the time he had inside the caves back in the foothills of Table Mountain. The open air suited him, and he’d found any reason at all to escape those confines to take in the views of Table Bay on a regular basis.

  He thought of Cape Town now. It had been his home for the past fifteen years, although he doubted he would ever be able to return. That was all right, as he was prone to neither sentiment nor habit. The most important thing about Cape Town was that the false clues he�
��d arranged to leave behind for the American group that had arrived there would be sufficient to keep them occupied until Qibla had accomplished its mission.

  Al-Warraq felt the attack on their group at the waterfront, solely devised so they would take a prisoner, had been an especially nice touch. He had subsequently heard it was Fadil Shunnar who survived the fight on the docks. That was good news. Fadil had always been a reliable party, even since the earliest days of al-Warraq’s Qibla influence. He would do exactly as instructed and send the Americans down a dead-end path. By the time they figured out what had happened, it would be too late.

  The one thing that seemed troublesome—nothing he saw fit to fret about, but it still nagged at him—was the involvement of the Americans so early. His spies in the SASS said that they were a multicultural team of troubleshooters, but little was known beyond that. Given the proximity of their arrival to the death of Rensberg, al-Warraq could only assume they had missed something vital. Rensberg either had somehow managed to send a message to his people before they caught up with him, or they had found something on him postmortem that had led them to investigate. Other spies said that the mysterious group of men had discovered the abandoned caverns in Table Mountain on the same day they’d arrived in Cape Town.

  But al-Warraq refused to let it worry him. As he’d told Sahar, conjecture and rhetoric would serve no purpose. It was time to act, and act was exactly what he planned to do.

  “Soon,” he whispered as he watched the ocean. “Soon.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Stony Man Farm, Virginia

  Barbara Price leaned over Aaron Kurtzman’s shoulder and watched as he worked.

  The Bear’s keen mind never ceased to fascinate her. His fingers danced over a keyboard, entering specific codes into the software program created by his team. In front of him was a twenty-five-inch LCD monitor that displayed a three-dimensional image of the Earth’s surface. The system was interfaced to the Stony Man group’s satellite for their exclusive use. With a combination of the latest technology available from the NSA—National Weather Service, U.S. Navy and NASA—the system could pinpoint the location of any seafaring vessel utilizing a GPS transmitter. The system could also locate vehicles, planes, military equipment and civilian transportation systems that were GPS-equipped.

  At present Price could tell Kurtzman was frustrated by the volume of clacking keystrokes. They had so far had little luck in determining, outside of the point of origin, which freighters had the greatest potential. That didn’t worry Price to any great degree; she knew Kurtzman would eventually nail it. But it was going to take time, and that, unfortunately, wasn’t a luxury they had. The clock was ticking and they still weren’t any closer to finding the correct targets.

  The other pressing matter was how to prepare a response if they couldn’t locate the freighters in time. There was no question the threat was chemical in nature and everything she had learned from medical experts at the Surgeon General’s office and FEMA painted an ugly picture.

  The effects of the chemical compound, a cholinesterase poison of some complexity, acted on the muscarinic receptors in red blood cells. Victims of cholinesterase poisoning would exhibit signs and symptoms that included profuse sweating, nausea and vomiting, uncontrolled urination and defecation, as well as severe reactions from the central nervous system. The onset was minutes, and mortality was based on the dose and method of exposure. In short, Price was no doctor, but it didn’t sound very good.

  The other problem was the ability of medical facilities to effectively treat anyone exposed to the cholinesterase poisoning. All the experts Price had consulted concurred on the preferred treatment, which was the administration of high-dose atropine.

  That was all well and good, but there were no stockpiles large enough to handle a major number of exposures. The key, then, was to insure that the Qibla terrorists never succeeded in their plans. The only way to do that was to find the freighters and, if necessary, to dispatch military units to blow them out of the water. The greatest difficulty would be keeping such activities quiet and stemming public scrutiny. Even if the President were forced to give the order for such an operation, it wouldn’t go over well in the view of public opinion to have naval and air force units blatantly sinking commercial freighters. A lot of tough questions would be asked, much tougher than had been posed at the 9/11 hearings.

  They had to make sure it never came to that.

  Harold Brognola’s weary voice intruded on Price’s thoughts. “Greetings, team.”

  She turned to see that Brognola had entered the Computer Room. His face was as haggard as his suit. He had finished his meeting with the President and opted to go home to catch a couple hours of sleep before returning to the Farm. Price had argued with him over that, pointing out that if he returned immediately, as planned, he would be too tired to continue working effectively. Eventually, Brognola had taken her advice.

  “When I told you to get some rest, Hal, I didn’t mean for you to sleep in your clothes,” she said with a grin.

  Brognola chuckled. “Well, I did take off my shoes and jacket.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, expressing her doubts about even that. “Coffee?”

  He nodded, and she went to the pot and poured him a cup.

  Brognola crossed to where Kurtzman continued to work. The computer expert hadn’t acknowledged him, but that was okay. They all knew the pressures he underwent in an operation of this kind. It was a matter of pride for him. Kurtzman’s mind was like a steel trap and he tackled every assignment with the ferocity of a hungry grizzly.

  As Price handed him his cup, Brognola asked, “Any more word from Able Team?”

  Price nodded. “They stopped the freighter.”

  Brognola sighed with relief.

  “They also managed to ward off an ambush,” Price continued. “They discovered the terrorists had been hiding inside an internal hatch in the aft section designed to support small-boat transport. They were attacked once they got on board. Unfortunately, the USCGC Lockett was lost in the battle.”

  “They didn’t find any missiles?”

  “No, unfortunately,” Price replied. “Ironman thinks it was a decoy.”

  “Which means the threat still looms,” Brognola said. He inclined his head toward Kurtzman. “Are we getting anywhere with finding the other freighters?”

  “No, and the Bear’s been working it three hours straight now,” Price said. “I’ve been trying to get him to take a break.”

  “No time for breaks,” Kurtzman stated, never breaking stride in his typing. “Our teams don’t get a break, so I don’t get a break. Simple.”

  Kurtzman returned to his work.

  Brognola went to a nearby conference table and dropped into a chair. He took a careful sip from the steaming cup of coffee, then said, “What do we know from Phoenix Force?”

  “They left Cape Town about two hours ago, and Jack’s filed a flight plan due north near the Western shores of the African continent, but far enough out to be in international airspace. And I’m afraid I have some unfortunate news.”

  “About Marais?”

  Price responded with a curt nod.

  “I heard. Aaron told me.” He shook his head as he set the coffee cup on the table. “I’m sorry that it happened. I’m sure the Man will want to issue some sort of formal condolences to the South African government. I’ll advise him as soon as possible.”

  “Speaking of which, how did your meeting go?” Price asked, taking a chair next to him.

  “Not as well as I’d hoped. At minimum, I think the President feels like it’s in the best interests of national security to alert military units specially trained in this kind of thing. He’s also alerted the British prime minister and allied governments in Europe and the Middle East, particularly Israel.”

  Price shook her head. “Why Israel?”

  “I think he’s concerned Qibla has plans to hit multiple targets,” the head Fed replied with a shrug. “An idea
he probably got from Lusk.”

  “Lusk? You mean, as in Frank Lusk, his National Security Adviser?”

  “Yes. He brought him to the meeting.”

  “That seems a bit out of character for the Man,” Price said.

  “Possibly, but I’d guess he’s just covering all of his bases. Actually, he made it clear that Lusk didn’t need to know the details of my position or our operation, which I appreciated. My largest concern is what he’s told Lusk. It’s at the President’s discretion, I suppose, but I’d be concerned about Lusk talking to others in less well-informed circles.”

  “You’d think by now the politics in Wonderland would have ceased to amaze me, Hal,” Price said. She sighed. “I get the sneaking suspicion there’s more to this than the Man’s letting on.”

  “Well, it doesn’t affect us in either case. Lusk advised him to put the military on full alert. Fortunately the President balked at the idea. He’d prefer we handled this and do it damn quick, so no more pressure than we’re used to. My chief concern now is coordinating our efforts in the information-gathering process and dispatching the field teams to do what they do best. That makes locating the freighters our number-one priority.”

  As if on cue, Kurtzman let out a victorious shout. “Got it!”

  Price and Brognola exchanged puzzled glances before rising and rushing to Kurtzman’s workstation.

  “We’re not completely there,” Kurtzman told them, “but we’re a damn sight closer than we were six hours ago.”

  Kurtzman tapped a few keys and projected the image at his terminal onto a large view-screen mounted against a nearby wall. He then gestured with the mouse to multicolored dots and squares scattered throughout ports and oceanic bodies worldwide as he briefed them.

  “This shows the current layout and positions of all known commercial freighter traffic in the world. The total count of full-container freighters based on the top twenty merchant marine fleets is just over three thousand. The yellow lines show the most common trade routes. All the green squares represent freighters that do not match the freighter type or configuration parameters we received based on the intelligence Phoenix Force seized in Cape Town. If I eliminate those, which includes all roll-on/roll-off, passenger, break bulk and refrigerated, that takes the number down to just over twenty-one hundred.”