End of Enemies

56

Cahil glanced up as the red cabin lights flashed. There was a pause, then two more flashes. Nine minutes from drop.

The loadmasters went to work, connecting safety harnesses and pushing the team’s sleds to the ramp. Bear flexed his fingers to keep the circulation going. The cabin temperature hovered around forty degrees.

The loadmaster turned and gave him a thumbs-up.

Cahil stood and signaled for final check. Each man began checking his swim buddy’s personal loadout: H&K MP-5 suppressed assault rife, Magellan nav box, wet suit, radio, grenades, first aid kit, flashlight, combat knife, and chem-light sticks. Including an airfoil parachute, each man was carrying 125 pounds of gear.

The cabin lights blinked again.

Six minutes.

Cahil felt the floor angle beneath his feet as the pilot began his descent. One of the loadmasters opened the aircraft’s side door. With a whoosh, the interior decompressed. Wind whipped through the cabin. The ramp groaned down a few inches to reveal a slice of black sky.

Smitty blew out a stream of vapor. “By the time we hit the water, it’s gonna seem downright toasty,” he yelled over the rush.

Cahil signaled the team to assemble.

They waddled down the ramp in a double stick — two columns of four men. The loadmasters — two for each stick — began hooking each man to his sled by a twenty-foot cable. Once done, the chief loadmaster gave Cahil the hooked-and-clear signal, then retreated to the main cabin.

The cabin lights flashed. Two minutes.

Cahil pulled out the Magellan and punched the keypad for a GPS update. Three rows of numbers flashed on the screen: Tsumago’s latitude, longitude, and course. On track. She was right where she was supposed to be.

With a whine, the ramp began opening. Now the real cold hit Cahil, ripping the air from his lungs. He turned the knob on his oxygen canister, heard the hiss, and took a deep breath; the air tasted metallic. He looked over his shoulder and got seven thumbs-up. Ready.

The ramp thudded to a stop. Cahil stared out into the blackness. Though invisible from this altitude, somewhere down there — five miles straight down — the ocean was waiting. He blinked hard, focused himself.

The lights blinked a final time: Ten seconds.

Cahil pulled down his goggles, gave the sled a shove, then ran after it.

Ninety seconds after Cahil and his team stepped into the void, the latest Keyhole update on Tsumago’s position arrived. “Put it on the main monitor,” Cathermeier ordered. The gray and black image flashed on the screen. “Tighten it up, highlight her course track.”

The technician did so, and the image contracted until it encompassed 100 square miles of ocean. Running diagonally across the screen was a dotted red line. At the end of it, where the white dot representing Tsumago should have been, there was nothing but ocean.

“I don’t see her,” said the president.

Mason murmured, “Where the hell—”

“Enlarge,” Dutcher ordered.

The image expanded. Northwest of Tsumago’s track were a pair of dots.

“Tighten on them and run a match.”

The tech did so. “The southern one matches Tsumago.”

“Distance from original course?”

“Twenty miles.”

“That can’t be,” said Cathermeier. “Twenty miles in under a half hour… She had to be making—”

“Thirty-five knots,” Dutcher finished. “Gentlemen, I think we just discovered something else about our mystery ship.”

“The other ship is a cruise liner,” the tech reported. “The Valverde.”

“Home port?”

“Tel Aviv, sir.”

“Oh, good God,” muttered James Talbot.

“General, contact your teams,” the president ordered. “Tell them to abort.”

“Too late, sir,” said Cathermeier. “They’re already on their way.”

Given Tsumago’s radar capabilities, Cahil and Jurens had decided against Sierra’s using a HAHO (high altitude, high opening) jump and opted instead to go HALO, which meant Bear and his team would free-fall from 29,000 feet and deploy their chutes 200 feet above the surface.

It was a wilder ride than any roller coaster in the world, but like the rest of his team, Cahil had little time to enjoy it. His attention was fixed on the glowing face of his altimeter. Falling this fast, his release window would be less than a second. Open your chute too high, and you become a radar target; open too low, and you hit the ocean like a watermelon crashing into a sidewalk.

Ninety seconds and two miles into the fall, he took his eyes off the altimeter and glanced below. He could see the ocean now, a black carpet interlaced with white ripples. It was hypnotic. Don’t watch it, he commanded. He’d seen three men die that way, hitting the water without even touching their chutes.

He refocused on the altimeter. 5,000 feet… 4,500… Don’t forget reaction time. First the sled, then the chute, then hard on the risers…

Now!

At 240 feet, Cahil jerked the sled’s release, felt it drop away, then pulled his chute release. His testicles shot into his stomach. He reached up, grabbed the risers, heaved down. He sensed the surface rushing toward him. Feet together, deep breath… The chute flared out, lifted, then everything went dark.

In pitch blackness, he unbuckled his harness, flipped over, and arched his back to clear the shroud. This was the most dangerous part. Filled with water, an airfoil weighs two tons and sticks like flypaper. He broke the surface and took a gulp of air.

Thirty feet to his right, he could see the green glow of his sled’s chem-light. He sidestroked to it, detached the shield, let the weights take it down, then switched on his radio headset.

“Sierra, talk to me.” One by one, the team checked in. There were no injuries, but Wilts reported the SATCOM transceiver had collided with his sled. The casing was cracked. “Weight it and drop it,” said Cahil. Losing the SATCOM was bad, but they still had their tactical radios, so their link to Alpha — the most critical one — was still intact. “Okay people, my beacon’s up. Form on me.”

Within five minutes, they were gathered in a circle. The sea was running about four feet and was covered with a thin surface fog. Cahil pulled out his Magellan and called for Tsumago’s position. He read the numbers and frowned.

“Problem, Bear?” asked Smitty.

“Don’t know.” He recycled the Magellan. The numbers were the same. He pulled out his laminated chart, clicked on his penlight, and plotted the coordinates. “Smitty, check yours.” Smitty did so, then compared the readout to Cahil’s.

“We’re almost thirty miles off,” Bear muttered.

“What?” asked Slud.

“Tsumago should be fifteen miles southwest of us. According to GPS, she’s dead in the water twenty-eight miles to the east, nearer the Canaries.”

“That ain’t good,” said Johnson. “Even if she stays put, we’re three hours away.”

Cahil thought it over. Without SATCOM, they couldn’t call for additional orders. Time for an executive decision, then. There was too much riding on this to simply quit at the first obstacle. Unless Tsumago’s destination had changed — which he doubted — she’d simply made a detour. If so, sooner or later, she would resume her course. He was betting Alpha would compensate accordingly.

“What’s the plan, boss?” asked Wilts.

“We head for the corner. This is straight geometry. It’s in a triangle. We’re on one corner and the target’s on the second. If she resumes course, we’ll intercept her right about…” He tapped the chart. “Here… the third corner. Twelve miles.”

“And if she stays put?”

“Then we keep our eye on her, adjust as necessary, and hit her where she is.”

“That’s four hours in the water, Bear,” said Smitty. Four hours at this temperature would put a dangerous drain on the team.

“You got anything better to do?” Cahil said. “Trust me: She’ll move.” God, please make her move. “Given their cargo, I doubt they’ll loiter.”

The team’s sleds — Mark7 IDVs (Individual Delivery Vehicles) — were a marvel of compact engineering. Light, virtually noiseless, and surprisingly agile, the sled’s electric motor was capable of towing a 200-pound man and his gear at eight knots for ten hours; with leg power, the top speed increased to ten knots.

After thirty minutes of travel, Cahil called a stop to check the Magellan.

“How about it, boss?” Smitty called.

“We’re in business,” Cahil said. “She’s moving. Course is zero-eight-zero… straight for us.”

What General Cathermeier had told the president was only partially true. In fact, both teams were reachable, though not immediately: Sierra via their SATCOM unit, and Alpha via Jurens’s final go/no-go check with Ford. Cathermeier had already sent the abort message to Ford. Sierra, however, was another matter. Cahil’s team was still not responding.

“There are two possibilities,” said Dutcher. “Either they’re unable to respond or it’s an equipment problem. Better we assume the latter and see how it plays out.” Dutcher was praying for the latter. If Ian was unable to respond, that meant something had gone fatally wrong during the HALO. At that altitude, in the dead of night… He leaned over the chart. “Here’s Sierra’s drop point,” he said. “Tsumago and Valverde are here.”

“Almost thirty miles between them,” said Talbot. “I’d say that solves our problem. There’s no way Sierra can reach the target.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“What do you mean, Dutch?” asked the president.

“I know Cahil, sir. By now he knows they’ve lost SAT-COM and he knows Tsumago’s not where she’s supposed to be. Without orders to the contrary, he’ll do what it takes to reach her.”

Talbot said, “It’s thirty miles, for God sake!”

“Maybe not.”

One of the communication technicians called: “General, we have Ford for you. Secure channel five.”

Cathermeier took the handset. “Cowboy, this is Coaldust, over.”

“Coaldust, per your request, we’ve been listening in on Fuertaventura’s harbor channel. We’ve intercepted a transmission. Are your recorders running?”

“Affirmative, Cowboy, go ahead.”

A new voice came over the speaker: “… Valverde, this is Fuertaventura. Say again your last transmission.”

“Fuertaventura, I repeat, this is Captain Stein of Valverde. We have been boarded. Two of my crew are dead. They have taken hostages.”

“Valverde, you are garbled. Understand you have been boarded. Understand you have hostages. Where are the hostages at this time?”

“I told you, man! They took them. They’re gone!”

Cahil called another halt to check the Magellan, then plotted Tsumago’s coordinates on the chart. For the first time in his adult life, Bear was glad he’d stayed awake during high school geometry. The triangle was closing. Unless she changed course again, the third corner would be their intercept point.

“We got two miles to go,” he called. “If we push hard, we’ll be there in twenty-five minutes.” With Tsumago’s top speed at twenty knots, that would leave them thirty minutes to prepare.

They beat Cahil’s estimate by three minutes. Once certain they were in the right spot, he spread Sierra in a line abreast, with himself at point and Smitty at anchor. Each man was linked to the next by seven-millimeter shock cord.

Sierra would board Tsumago via snag-line, a method rarely used because it broke the simpler-is-better rule of special operations. Traditional assault doctrine called for a stern approach by ICRRC (improved combat rubber raiding craft) and a midships boarding. This method had its drawbacks, however, two of which influenced Bear’s decision.

A stern approach would have required a HAHO jump and a boat pursuit, both problematic because of Tsumago’s radar. The other consideration was the ship’s siege-proof construction, which could become a problem if they found themselves in a standoff. Surprise was essential. Moreover, any increase in security aboard Tsumago would likely come in the form of lookouts, which would spot an ICRRC a mile away. As for a bow lookout spotting them, Cahil was unworried. In this fog, they would be all but invisible.

He pulled out his binoculars, looked to the southwest, but saw nothing. “Everybody get comfortable and look sharp.”

Five minutes later, Wilts called over the radio, “Target, boss. Three miles.”

What? Cahil checked his watch: It was too early to be Tsumago.

He peered through his binoculars. In the distance, a pair of red and green running lights sat low on the water. Neither were obstructed, which meant she was headed straight for them. He checked the Magellan. The bearing and range were correct, but the timing was wrong. It was too late to second-guess, he decided.

“That’s our ride, gentlemen. Tighten up the line. I’ll call out steerage.”

Two minutes later, Cahil could see Tsumago’s outline clearly. Even at this distance, he could see her bow wave curling halfway up the hull.

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.