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  Still, McCarter didn’t feel like getting shot. He kept his head down and keyed his radio.

  “Papa One to Eagle One, do you copy?”

  “This is Eagle One, loud and clear.”

  “We’re taking friendly fire over here, mate,” McCarter said. “I don’t think my countrymen know yet that we’re on their side, and I’m not even sure they care. Can you get with them and tell them to put a capper on the turkey shoot?”

  “Roger, wilco,” Grimaldi replied.

  A moment later an earth-shattering boom erupted from the direction of the destroyer and was followed by an explosion that rocked the entire freighter. The blast was heavy enough to lift McCarter off his belly and slam him back onto the roof. Considering he was on the highest point, he was probably taking less of a battering than those below. Now it seemed the destroyer—which McCarter had finally identified as the HMS Newcastle—had finally put its gunnery departments in place. The blast had come from an Mk 8 just to the rear of the ship’s bow, a 114 mm general-purpose gun that fired 25 kg shells at the rate of twenty-five per minute.

  McCarter kept his head down as debris rained on him. Yeah, he thought, it was bloody well time to get off this damn roof. The Briton slung his MP-5 A-3, grabbed the edge of the roof and flipped himself onto the catwalk that bordered the bridge. He kept low and moved to the entryway, stopping short as a smaller man with a dark complexion and a thick mustache emerged from the bridge. A pistol glinted in the red-orange light of the setting sun and McCarter could see immediately that he was facing a serious threat.

  The man started to turn and McCarter realized in a heartbeat he wouldn’t be able to bring his SMG or pistol to bear in time. So McCarter did the only thing he could, launching a snap kick that caught the man’s wrist and knocked the pistol from his grip. The terrorist reacted quickly, withdrawing a long, curved knife and charging McCarter. The Briton dropped to his back and executed a judo circle throw, sending the man over the railing and plummeting to the deck thirty feet below. McCarter rose in time to see the terrorist land on some crates. He smacked his head on at least two or three—breaking his neck with an audible crack—before his body hit the deck with a sickly crunch.

  McCarter nodded good riddance, and then continued on a quest to find his teammates.

  T. J. HAWKINS DIDN’T GET much of a chance to recover when he hit the deck, because two terrorists with assault weapons charging his position suddenly became more important. The muzzles of their Kalashnikovs flashed and Hawkins rolled away from the hungry rounds looking to punch through his unshielded body.

  Hawkins took cover behind a stack of flimsy pallets and brought his weapon to bear. He’d traded the G-41 for an M-4 Commando—the law-enforcement carbine version of the M-16 family—which Kissinger had modified just for him. The weapon fired the standard .223 Remington shell, but Kissinger had turned it into an even more compact weapon by detaching the stock and loading the buffer spring in a special casing beneath the forward handgrip. The result was a short, compact weapon with all the power and accuracy that had made Colt Defense, LLC and the M-16 rifle famous.

  Hawkins moved the selector to full-auto, swung the weapon into action and sighted on the charging terrorists. He squeezed the trigger and took his first attacker with a short, tight burst to the chest. The rounds punched large holes in the man’s back at that range, knocking him from his feet. He left a gory smear on the deck as his body slid away from Hawkins’s position.

  The second terrorist obviously realized his target wasn’t helpless or unarmed, and quickly grabbed cover. The terrorist evaded death by laying down a merciless onslaught of autofire while going for cover. It was an old but still effective tactic, and Hawkins knew it well: keep heads down until you can get somewhere safe. The only problem in this case was that “safe” was undoubtedly a relative term, and one the terrorists obviously didn’t understand.

  Hawkins reached to his LBE for an M-67 fragmentation grenade. He thumbed away the pin, let the spoon fly, let it cook off for two seconds and tossed the bomb gently across the gap separating him from the enemy. There was a shout of surprise followed by a tremendous blast as the explosive ignited under the fuse. Hawkins felt something warm and wet smack his face before falling in front of him. A quick glance revealed it was a finger.

  RAFAEL ENCIZO DROPPED TO the freighter’s aft deck with the grace and speed of a combat veteran. He’d made more jumps like this than he could count, and this was just one more to add to his belt. He moved quickly to keep from being trapped under the parachute that fell in the wake of his landing, then crouched. He brought an MP-5 into play and checked his immediate surroundings. No one appeared to challenge him.

  The Cuban warrior double-checked his flank, then waited for his backup to arrive. It came a moment later in the tall, lanky form of Calvin James. The ex-SEAL hit the ground and rolled in a perfect landing. He came out of the roll easily and retrieved his M-16 A-4/M-203. The over-and-under assault combo was a favorite of the warrior’s, having served him well on many missions.

  Encizo whistled a sharp, high tone and James moved over to his position as soon as he saw him. The two didn’t speak at first, checking the immediate area one last time before risking to give each other their respective attention.

  “Did you notice if the others got down okay?” Encizo asked.

  “Don’t know about David or Gary, but I saw T.J. run into some trouble as he set down.”

  “He pulled out of it okay?”

  James flashed him a lopsided smile. “You kidding? He fragged one terrorist.”

  That figured about right, from what Encizo had come to know about the youngest, and in some ways toughest member of Phoenix Force. T. J. Hawkins might have played the game to the max, even applied a bit of overkill at times, but he was one tough guy and could take care of himself. There were few situations he wasn’t able to handle, even in some of the toughest training scenarios they would run at the Farm.

  “All right, so we stay on mission,” Encizo said.

  “Well, at least we picked the right freighter,” James said, obviously unable to refrain from pulling some good humor from a very bad situation.

  “You think?” Encizo cracked, not missing a beat.

  The Vulcan Phalanx erupted once more and Encizo risked breaking cover long enough to check the position of the British warship. It was now approaching the freighter, and Encizo could see they had their Lynx MK 8 chopper rolled into position and the rotors beginning to wind up. Simultaneously there was another booming report from the MK 8 gun and this time the shell punched through the hull somewhere belowdecks. A moment later an explosion blasted through the deck plates about fifty yards from the Phoenix Force pair’s position. Fire, smoke and heat belched from the hole left in the wake of the blast.

  “What the hell is taking Jack so long to get that message from David through to the Royal Navy?” James asked, brushing dust from his closely cropped hair.

  “I don’t know,” Encizo replied, “but it won’t be long now. Come on.”

  The two emerged from cover and headed toward the forward berths. Their mission was simple: get inside the ship and see if they could find the missile. If they did, they would then have to sabotage the launcher with the heavy explosives Manning had rigged for them so that it never got off the pad. If they couldn’t do that, then the missile would have to go into the murky depths of the Mediterranean Sea.

  The trio reached a hatch on the starboard side of the ship, about middeck, and within seconds they were inside and descending the steps. Encizo knew they would have to go several decks before reaching the bowels of the freighter. According to their intelligence, the freighter’s cargo lift—a massive hydraulic pad that sat just aft of the forecastle—would be the most likely place for them to build the pad unless they had performed major alterations to the freighter’s configuration. Phoenix Force wasn’t buying that, simply because the terrorists had obviously felt the pressure being exerted by the Stony Man teams and accelerat
ed their plans.

  Encizo could only hope their theory would hold long enough for the terrorists to make one too many sloppy mistakes. So far, they had proved to be clever and formidable enemies, and apparently intent on completing their mission no matter what. To this point, however, he hadn’t witnessed them acting with the predictability of fanatics, but rather like a cold, calculating war machine of some considerable efficiency. The thought of going against such a well-trained terror group wasn’t something to which Encizo looked forward.

  He and James turned a corner and nearly ran into four terrorists coming from the opposite direction. The terrorists were still trying to figure out how to react while Encizo and James were in motion. Encizo slung the stock of his MP-5 with an underhand move and crushed the nearest man’s testicles. The guy opened his mouth to shout in pain but quickly found it stuffed with the muzzle of Encizo’s machine pistol. The Cuban squeezed the trigger, the single 9 mm Parabellum round hammering through the man’s skull and blowing his brains completely out of his head. The flesh, blood and bone doused the two terrorists behind him.

  Simultaneously, James took a second with a double punch to the face followed by a ridge-hand strike to the throat. The blow smashed the terrorist’s windpipe, bits of sharp cartilage and bone continuing onward to lacerate his esophagus. The man tried to scream, but it came forth only as a bloody gurgle. James finished it with a snap kick to the breastbone that shattered the sternum and cracked the ribs with enough force to lodge bone fragments in both lungs.

  The pair opened up on the remaining two terrorists with their respective weapons, shredding their flesh with a volley of 9 mm Parabellum and 5.56 NATO slugs. The sudden assault lifted the men off their feet and slammed them into the hatchway door to their rear. The deafening reports began to die down in the confined space.

  Encizo shook his head to clear the ringing in his ears.

  “That was goddamn close, brother,” James said. “We come any closer to the enemy like that again, and I’ll take my chances with those big-ass guns on that destroyer out there.”

  “Ditto.”

  “And nice moves there, by the way.”

  “Same to you,” Encizo said. “Now, let’s see if we can’t find this big, bad missile we keep hearing about.”

  WHEN GARY MANNING SAW the carnage unfolding in front of him, he could barely contain his rage. That rage—the same he’d kept bottled up all this time over the death of Jeanne Marais—was now able to be unleashed. Manning was going to kill as many of them today as he could, and if he fell it would be most likely that he’d taken a bunch of them with him.

  Unlike the rest of the team, Manning had a very special mission. His job was to get to the bridge and blow it to kingdom come, thereby leaving the ship dead in the water. But that was going to prove to become quite a challenge, because Manning didn’t get lucky enough to land somewhere on the freighter, and neither had he touched down in the water. Oh, no. Manning had come down on the back end of the ship and got his chute hung up on its rearmost rail.

  Manning let fly with a firestorm of obscenities before willing himself to get calm and think through the predicament. It stood to reason that to this point all of the terrorists were too occupied to have noticed his chute wrapped around the back of the freighter. What he didn’t know was how long that luck would hold out, so it seemed reasonable that the first order of business would be to get out of his current situation as quickly as possible.

  First, he gave thought to cutting himself free and dropping into the sea, then firing a grappling hook at the ship. Had he been hooked up at the bow or sides, such a tactic would have been impossible, most likely resulting in him being pulled under the freighter in its powerful wake and ultimately sucked into the screws. That would definitely have put an end to his career. Still, after some consideration, Manning realized that wasn’t his best option. There was no guarantee if he hit the water that he’d be able to get back onto the freighter.

  He watched the furious whitecaps directly below his feet, considering his other options. He couldn’t dangle here all damn day. And then it occurred to him that he could cut himself loose from his harness, then climb the risers to the deck. The only problem would be the large satchel containing his explosives. One way or another, he’d have to dump it first. The churning water below wasn’t an option, so Manning cut the satchel free and heaved it onto the deck, hopeful that a curious terrorist wouldn’t come by.

  Manning reached up to the right shoulder strap of his LBE and detached the Ka-Bar fighting knife. A minute later he had himself free of the straps and began to climb the bunched risers of the parachute. The ascent wasn’t as easy at it might have looked to the outside observer. Hands grabbed at the thin risers and every part of the hand-over-hand climb was almost grueling, even for a commando as well-conditioned as Manning. By the time he reached the railing, his hands were bleeding, made raw by the unforgiving parachute cord.

  Manning vaulted the railing and landed on the deck with the grace of a cat. He checked the area and quickly located the satchel. An inspection of the contents confirmed everything was still intact. A sudden shudder and lurch by the freighter, the result of an impact shell from a gun on the British destroyer, threw the Canadian to the deck.

  It also saved his life.

  A hail of slugs buzzed through the air where his head was only a second earlier. Manning rolled instinctively, not wanting to give the terrorist a chance to recover. He didn’t, and Manning came to one knee with the satchel in his left hand and shielded by his body. A.357 Magnum Desert Eagle filled his right fist and he saw the terrorist’s eyes grow wide just a millisecond before he pulled the trigger.

  The steel-core slug drilled through the man’s chest and slammed him against a venting stack. Manning followed with a second round, this one a head shot, although he knew the guy was dead even as he squeezed the trigger. The terrorist’s corpse slid to the ground in a heap.

  Manning rose and checked his flanks before proceeding toward the bridge.

  FOR SOME REASON Jarred Blankenship couldn’t explain, they had allies. At least, that’s the way it was beginning to appear. At first, he hadn’t noticed the men clad in black moving on these pirates or terrorists or whatever they bloody hell were with the tenacity of seasoned combatants. And they were doing a spot-on job of it, which was why it didn’t surprise Blankenship when the ship-to-shore rang.

  “This is Admiral Stalworthe.”

  “Yes, sir, Commander Blankenship here.”

  “What in the name of creation is going on out there?” Stalworthe demanded. “I just got off the phone with the prime minister’s office, where I was ordered to order you to stand down. Apparently there is a gun battle in process?”

  “They fired on us, sir,” Blankenship replied. “We are simply defending ourselves.”

  “Well, stop defending yourself long enough to tell me if there are allied commandos on board that ship!”

  Blankenship immediately felt a lump form in his throat. Had the admiral said “allied” commandos? That wasn’t good. Here he was, blowing the hell out of them over there, and there were men now on board that were apparently on their side. No, he could kiss another assignment in the Mediterranean goodbye.

  “You are hereby ordered to assist and observe in whatever capacity you deem fit,” Stalworthe replied, “but for God’s sake, man, stop firing on our allies. They might just put an end to this quicker than you think.”

  “I understand, sir. Of course, sir,” Blankenship replied. He didn’t enjoy having to kowtow to his superiors in such a fashion, particularly when he’d done nothing more than protect his ship and his men. Well, he would observe and assist, all right, but he wouldn’t hesitate to sink that bloody piece of iron if provoked further.

  Before Blankenship realized it, Stalworthe had disconnected the call.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Rafael Encizo and Calvin James found their target.

  The men took sharp breaths at the same time w
hen they saw it there, a missile gleaming under the harsh worklights. The area surrounding the missile was poorly lit, lending an almost eerie quality to their surroundings. Well, it was no time for ghost stories. They needed to find and deactivate the missile controls, and hope that the terrorists hadn’t thought far enough ahead to equip the missile with a remote switch of some kind.

  A number of terrorists were scurrying around the missile, apparently trying to perform last-minute modifications that would allow them to launch it. The two Phoenix Force warriors exchanged glances and knew that the other was thinking the exact same thing. So, their arrival had caused the terrorists to have to accelerate their timetable, which could only mean that Hawkins’s theory was correct—the terrorists had been waiting for something, most likely another attack that was to take place somewhere else.

  Encizo surveyed the scene in front of him, taking the details in at a glance, then he and James hunched behind their cover.

  “I saw what looks like a control panel connected to a power grid on the other side of the bay,” Encizo began. “I think we ought to go for that.”

  “You think that’s what controls the missile?”

  Encizo shook his head. “I’m not sure it controls the missile, but I’d bet my next paycheck it controls that lift platform. I figure if they can’t open the bay and raise the thing, they sure as hell can’t launch it. I think I can take it out with one of Gary’s little toys here, but I’m going to need a distraction.”

  “Great,” James said. “How do I always get so lucky with the assignment of playing decoy?”

  “RHIP,” Encizo said. The old mnemonic of “rank has its privileges” was one that McCarter often used on Hawkins when the newest member of Phoenix Force would complain about having to do something he really didn’t want to do. The reality was, of course, that they were all equal to one another—McCarter serving as team leader only because any military operation required someone to keep group cohesion in much the same way as a quarterback did for a football team—and none of them minded doing whatever they had to do to accomplish the mission. Bitching about it just helped to relieve some of the stress.