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  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean there was a problem at that time. And it might be something as simple as her working off the wrong band. Why do you wish to detain her, anyway, Commander? Do you have some reason to suspect she poses a security threat?”

  “Not actually, sir,” Blankenship replied, a little miffed at the question. “I would respectfully remind the admiral of his recent standing order to increase the number of ad hoc inspections conducted in this area.”

  “Ah, yes, of course, you’re right,” Stalworthe replied. “Well, I don’t think it’s anything to worry about, Commander, but Her Majesty’s vessel is under your command. I leave it to your discretion to make the final decision as to whether to stop this freighter or simply to make a log that you contacted me. Off the record, I would caution you to tread carefully on this one, Jarred. We don’t want it to appear as if the Royal Navy has turned into some sort of martial force bent on reigning once more on the high seas. Do you understand?”

  “I do understand, sir, and I will be as conciliatory as possible within the limits of my duties,” Blankenship replied with glee. “And I am equally confident the admiral is correct, and that this will turn out to be nothing.”

  “Good work, Commander,” Stalworthe said. “Carry on.”

  As Blankenship hung up the phone, he turned to his executive officer. “Lieutenant Commander Bedford, sound the alert call and prepare to intercept that freighter.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “I THINK WE MIGHT have trouble,” Manning said, looking up from the high-resolution image created by the digital painter built into the onboard computer system.

  David McCarter looked up from where he was inspecting his equipment at the table. “What’s up, mate?”

  “That freighter we’re tracking now has a British destroyer moving into an intercept position, and I’m not sure we can beat them to the punch.”

  “Damn!” McCarter rose and moved to inspect the terminal. “That’s all we bloody well need, an international incident involving British military right in the middle of the Mediterranean.”

  “That’s not the worse of it,” Rafael Encizo said, entering the cabin and catching the tail end of the conversation. “If that destroyer crew attempts to board the freighter, the terrorists might panic and decide to forego a coordinated attack in favor of an early attempt on the target.”

  “Oh, bloody hell,” McCarter moaned. He looked at the screen. “And they’re within target range, too. Shag it, boys, we’re going in.” McCarter slapped a switch on the wall that opened an inboard communications link directly to Grimaldi.

  “We’ve got trouble below, Jack.”

  “I saw it,” Grimaldi replied. “You’re talking about that destroyer.”

  “Right-o, mate,” McCarter said. “We’re going to bail here. I need you to take us in as close and low as possible.”

  “Minimum ceiling in that area is ten thousand feet, David.”

  “We’re going to need at least half that if we’ve got a snowball’s chance of getting there before my countrymen do.”

  “How will they respond if they discover there are terrorists on the freighter?”

  “It’s not the RN’s response I’m worried about, mate, it’s the terrorists’,” McCarter said. “Just get us down there, and quick-like.”

  “Roger that.”

  McCarter terminated the connection and rushed to pack his equipment. The weapons would have to remain inside waterproof bags until such point as they were aboard ship. If they played their cards right, they could perhaps parachute directly onto the freighter. A lot would depend on how low Grimaldi could go before NATO’s Mediterranean Command Group simply decided to blow him out of the sky. He wasn’t sure how the Stony Man top gun planned to handle that. Then again, it wasn’t really his worry. Grimaldi would handle it, and that’s all he had to concern himself with. His chief job was to insure that they neutralized the terrorist threat, if any.

  McCarter wished he had more intelligence, but this was the game and the hand he’d been dealt to play with, and he wasn’t going to get any more cards. He was taking an awful risk, hoping he was right about the ship. For all he knew, this could turn out to be a dud. Then where in the bloody hell would they be? Not only would it take time to explain their presence to the freighter’s crew and the destroyer’s commander, but it would require significant cooperation to get somewhere they could hook up with Grimaldi again. Well, they would just have to play it by ear and work out the details at a later point. Right now the most important thing was to get to the freighter before the British and, if necessary, put down any threat.

  JACK GRIMALDI HEARD the voice in his ears as he brought the Gulfstream C-20 into position. He wondered if David McCarter had the first inkling of what he was asking for. To violate airspace in a volatile region like this was risky enough, but he certainly was asking for it when there was so much sea activity. It wouldn’t take the NATO defense forces long to respond to anything they perceived as a threat, which Grimaldi was going to have to find a way to convince them he was anything but.

  “ComFAirMed control to unidentified aircraft,” the man said, “you are in violation of Mediterranean air space under the jurisdiction of NATO forces. Please respond.”

  Grimaldi ignored the Commander Fleet Air Mediterranean controller.

  The controller repeated his message and Grimaldi answered him. “ComFAirMed, I read you. This is American aircraft N921SV. I’m having a serious horizon indicator malfunction, and my altimeter just went on the fritz. I am also losing height. Can you confirm my position and altitude?”

  “Aircraft N921SV, stand by and follow your present course,” the controller said. Dead air came through his headset, but it was less than thirty seconds before the controller’s voice returned. “Aircraft N921SV, do you copy?”

  “I copy, ComFAirMed,” Grimaldi replied.

  “You are way too low, sir,” the controller replied. “You’re presently at two thousand feet and continuing descent. Hard deck is ten thousand feet, N921SV. Do you read? You need to pull up now.”

  Grimaldi knew he meant it. Commander Fleet Air Mediterranean was the primary U.S. command authority presence in the area, and one of four stations responsible for all air traffic activities under NATO. Right at that moment they were probably scrambling the closest fighters and it wouldn’t be more than five minutes maximum before they were in the air. He couldn’t compete against F-16 Falcons and F-18A Hornets. They’d be on him like white on rice.

  Grimaldi said, “N921SV to ComFAirMed, I will ascend as soon as I can, but right now I’m flying blind up here! Can you assist?”

  “Aircraft N921SV, you need to pull up, sir. Do you read me? Pull up your aircraft! You are entirely too low. Pull up now, or we will be forced to intercept your craft. N921SV, do you read?”

  Grimaldi killed the switch and moved the band to the inboard system channel. “David, you reading me?”

  “I read you.”

  “We’re a minute out from target. Are you ready for drop?”

  “Affirmative, mate. What’s our height?”

  “I’ve got you to two thousand. I go any lower than that and I’m going to have NATO fighters all over my ass. You got forty-five minutes, no more. Then I’ll be up and gone. Let me know when the last one’s away.”

  “Roger that. Thanks, ace.”

  “Good luck!”

  “CLOSING TO WITHIN standard intercept range now, sir,” Lieutenant Commander Edsel Bedford announced.

  Blankenship nodded with a satisfied expression. “Excellent work, Number One. Prepare boarding boats and load a blank charge to fire. But let’s send up the all-stop flare first. That should give them an idea of the kind of business we mean. We shall not fire a warning shot across the bow unless they leave us absolutely no choice, and then only if I give the order to do so.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Although Blankenship wasn’t really required to explain himself to his junior officers, he did have enough
respect and stock in the knowledge and experience of his executive officer to pull him aside for a private conversation.

  “I don’t mean any disrespect to you, Edsel,” Blankenship told him. “But we’re in a rather precarious situation here according to the information Admiral Stalworthe gave me. We are to avoid any sort of incident, if you take my meaning.”

  Bedford replied with a short nod. “I do very much take it, sir. I leave control of this in your hands.”

  “Good. I am going to have you accompany the patrol teams. I think it will be a sporting show if the second in command represents Her Majesty’s interests, don’t you?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Good, then join the men and prepare to board. You’re relieved of bridge duty for now. I will take it from here.”

  “Aye, sir.” Bedford saluted smartly, turned and headed for the launch deck.

  Blankenship returned to the main part of the bridge and ordered the helmsman to full stop. They were now less than a hundred meters from the freighter. He turned and nodded to the signalman, an indicator that they should send up the all-stop flare. The signalman called a ship wide alert, threw two small switches to the right of his console and palmed a large red button there. The sound of a topside flare gun firing was barely audible inside the enclosed bridge. The cluster shot high into the air, arced and exploded into a starburst pattern recognized by all maritime vessels as a stop request.

  Seconds turned into minutes, but the freighter didn’t even appear to slow. Blankenship advised the signalman to call on the helm and release the boarding parties, then ordered him to have gunnery standing by with the blank charge. It wouldn’t do anything more than fire an inert cluster—one that acted very similar to the all-stop flare—but it was as clear a warning as to the consequences the ship would suffer if it didn’t heave to. Such signals were the foundation of maritime and naval military operations. All crews and captains of every vessel on the sea knew what these signs meant. There would be no proclaiming ignorance.

  Blankenship hoped it wouldn’t come to that. The destroyer commander looked out the forward view port of the bridge and shook his head. The freighter still hadn’t stopped, and now he knew that the boarding parties leaving the HMS Newcastle would be visible to the freighter crew. Blankenship hated to do it, but the bow warning shot was his last resort.

  “Mr. Devine?” He addressed the fire control officer.

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Load the charge and clear for battery,” he said. “Give me your firing solution.”

  “Aye, sir,” he said. He reached to the ship phone that would connect him directly to the firing team. Blankenship knew he had a fine crew. They were the pride of the RN and he knew they would perform admirably.

  The fire control officer said, “Sir, one Seagnat 216 Mod 1 charge is loaded and targeted for across the vessel’s bow, angle one-ten mark zero.”

  “Fire at will,” Blankenship said with a nod. Certainly they would stop when they heard that boom of a heavier gun. The Seagnat was generally used for electronic countermeasure purposes, but could double for other such jobs as required. It was an excellent choice for this type of situation.

  At the moment the weapon fired, an explosion occurred somewhere just in front of the bow. Through the bridge window Blankenship could see several bodies flying through the air, their charred uniforms obviously those of his crew.

  “Mr. Devine, report! What the hell is going on? Did we hit our own people?”

  “Checking now, sir!” Devine replied. “Gun battery team one, report! What did you do?”

  A moment later the entire bridge crew watched in amazement as the Seagnat exploded just aft of the freighter’s starboard bow. Blankenship’s jaw dropped. They had fired exactly where they should have and at the target they should have. The source of the explosion had been near the small boats, which meant that either there had been an accident or a purposeful attack. Only seconds elapsed from the moment of that realization to when Blankenship got his answer.

  “Sir, Forward Obs is reporting that several men on the freighter are at the railings and armed with missile launchers, some type of shoulder-fired torpedo or anti-tank weapons.”

  “That was no accident,” Blankenship whispered, unable to stop the horrified expression on his face. “We’re under attack! Sound battle stations and get me command on the horn!”

  “Aye, sir!”

  FAHD ABUFATIN HADN’T EXPECTED anything even close to what was transpiring at this very moment.

  Right before his eyes, he was watching a British warship approaching fast and sending boats with armed men to board his ship. Damn Jabir al-Warraq! He had promised that this would be easy. Jabir had said that they would be able to reach the port in Tel Aviv-Yafo without incident, and that everything would be fine. He only had twelve hours remaining before they would launch their attack, but now this problem had arisen.

  In response to the incident, Abufatin ordered three of his men to attack the smaller boats. Whatever happened, they couldn’t afford to be captured. If at all possible, he knew that the captain of the destroyer would try to take them without sinking the ship. If he focused his efforts on the smaller boats, that would prevent them from boarding the ship.

  “Whatever happens, Dabir,” he told his second in command, “you must not let them board this ship. We will defend until the last man, and if we cannot get the missile launched in time, then we will blow it to bits. Have your men get below and start planting charges in key areas.”

  Dabir had gone to do his bidding, but Abufatin could tell he did it with some reluctance. Who could blame him? They weren’t soldiers or fanatics; they were simply hired guns in the employ of Jabir al-Warraq. Abufatin had no desire to die this day, either in loyalty to Allah or al-Warraq. He was supposed to do a job and get paid for it. If he had known about the magnitude of the risks, he probably would have doubled the normal fee for him and his men.

  It didn’t matter, though, because he prided himself on his reputation. He was one of the finest mercenaries in the Arabic community, and he had never betrayed a customer. He and his men had been hiding in Cape Town when they were first approached by one of al-Warraq’s closest friends and advisers, the mammoth Aban Sahar. Abufatin could remember how much Sahar intimidated him when they’d first met. He had the eyes of a killer, there was no doubt there, and Abufatin had wondered in that first meeting if it was wise to take the job at all. But then the offer had been too big and too generous, so he accepted for the sake of his men and their families, most of whom were back in Iraq and starving.

  The first of his mercenary group to reach the port side of the railing didn’t hesitate in the least. The man raised a rocket launcher to his shoulder, sighted the weapon on the approaching boats and fired. At nearly the exact same moment, one of the heavy guns on the British ship boomed, almost as if firing in response to the explosion that occurred on one of the boats. The sailors in that boat were decimated by the explosion. Even as the blast died, a second man set up his launcher and fired, but this charge missed, instead exploding about fifteen feet beneath the surface and showering the remaining boat’s occupants with a harmless spray of seawater.

  Abufatin could now hear Klaxons sounding on the destroyer. He knew they wouldn’t be able to repel such an overwhelming force for long, and they were certainly outclassed by the mammoth warship, whose guns were now swiveling in their direction. But none of that could hold Abufatin’s attention, because something even more bizarre and puzzling demanded it.

  It was the sound of something landing on the roof of the bridge tower, then the subsequent burst of autofire that raked his men below.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  All five members of Phoenix Force had bailed from the Gulfstream C-20 as it made a low, sweeping turn and began a rapid ascent as soon as the last man had cleared the door. At that low altitude, the only way to jump was with a static line, which would pull the cord automatically. The average speed of drop from the peak
of chute expansion was about thirty-three feet per second, so total jump-to-target time had only taken about seventy seconds.

  Yeah…only, David McCarter thought.

  Seventy seconds was a long time when he considered it took the enemy less than a second to pull the trigger. Then again, that was assuming the quarry knew where to look, and in this scenario they were able to take the terrorists by total surprise. McCarter had been first out the door and he steered his chute to bring him down on the fast-moving freighter as close to the bridge as possible. His luck held out and he made a picture-perfect landing, slapping the quick releases on his chutes just a few feet above the roof of the bridge.

  McCarter brought his MP-5 A-3 off his shoulder, went to one knee and opened up with a steady barrage of 9 mm Parabellum slugs on the three terrorists holding rocket launchers at the railing. He had watched helplessly as they destroyed one of the small launches put forth for boarding, but he wasn’t helpless now.

  McCarter’s first rounds caught the closest terrorist in the back, ripping his flesh with enough impact to drive him over the railing and into the choppy sea. The second terrorist met a similar fate, the rounds lifting him off his feet and slamming him to the deck. The third was smart enough to drop his now useless antitank weapon and attempt to go for the AK-47 assault rifle slung across his back, but he never had time to bring it to bear. McCarter ripped him open from crotch to throat with several corkscrew tribursts from the MP-5 A-3.

  The Briton threw himself to his belly before being able to even think about his next move. The sky echoed with fire coming from one of Her Majesty’s powerful destroyers. The ship’s commander had obviously ordered a full retaliatory response, and McCarter couldn’t say he blamed the guy. His years in the SAS also left no doubt as to what exactly that response included. The Vulcan 20 mm/76 Phalanx Close-in Weapons System was an invention of the Americans, and he knew it was a damn fine one at that. McCarter knew it was primarily used as an antimissile and antiaircraft defense system, but in this case the ship’s commander had obviously found another clever use for it. While perhaps overkill, the weapon could clear any threat from surface ship decks faster than anything else, and in this case it did a bang-up job.