Each man also carried a 9 mm Glock handgun. At least, that was the plan John Kissinger, the Stony Man armorer, had had when he’d outfitted Phoenix Force for the mission. Kissinger had also seen to it that each man had a full-size, drop-point combat, fixed-blade knife to mount on his gear. But McCarter, as he usually did, had insisted on his beloved Browning Hi-Power. Kissinger had known better than to argue the point.
Outfitting the team with foreign weapons was part of the drill. In the shadowy world of politics and plausible deniability, everybody knew what was going on, but everybody pretended they didn’t. That was one of the reasons even allies routinely spied on each other. There would be no doubt, if Phoenix Force was captured or killed, that they were likely a Western commando team. But as long as there was no concrete proof, they could operate outside established international laws. The very notion was ridiculous to McCarter. There were no international laws that were not enforced behind the barrels of guns. Like the one he held now.
The deck of the Filipino ship was on fire. The crew was doing what they could to douse the flames. McCarter threw them a salute, hoping they would understand he was on their side. They regarded him suspiciously if they noticed him at all; for the most part, they were too worried about survival to spare him much time. He immediately went to a section of the railing that was clear of debris, braced his Tavor and started tracking the second motor launch.
The first of the two fast-attack boats was trailing a thick plume of black smoke. As McCarter watched, the Sikorsky flew past, turned and lined up the grenade launcher.
“Now, Gary! Now!” McCarter said.
Manning made no reply. He did not need to. The automatic grenade launcher began spewing 40 mm death at the already crippled motor launch. The grenades blew the little boat to cinders, biting off great chunks of it, as if the vessel were being devoured from stern to bow. The flaming bodies that were thrown into the sea bore horrible testament to the destruction being wrought. McCarter turned his attention back to the boat that was still moving.
Grimaldi did the same. While the second boat, the moving boat, was out of position, he had pursued the wounded first vessel, but his strategy was a sound one. He was harrying the motor launches to keep them from targeting the Filipino ship again with their handheld rockets. From what McCarter could see of the men on the decks, they did not look military. At least, they did not wear uniforms. But there was something more to it. Military men had a certain bearing and, from what little he could see through the smoke of the carnage on the water, the sailors on the motor launch didn’t have it. They were casual. That meant they were pirates, or at least, civilian contractors. But how would such men get their hands on the latest high-tech weapons from America, weapons that were strictly controlled when it came to export to foreign powers? Either RhemCorp was careless or RhemCorp was dirty. But they did not yet know which.
McCarter let the red dot of his Tavor optics fall on the moving motor launch. It continued to fly through the water, making widening circles around the Filipino ship. The crew, around McCarter, was starting to bring the fire under control. James took up a protective position at McCarter’s back, looking in toward the deck, and started shooing sailors away from his position with a collection of hand gestures and dirty looks. The sailors seemed content to give the two Phoenix Force members plenty of room, especially when McCarter started firing on the pirate launch still rolling through the waves.
“David, this is G-Force,” said Grimaldi over the transceiver frequency. Phoenix Force typically used first names as code names for missions like this. Surnames could be tracked, but first names and nicknames would yield little if overheard.
“Go ahead,” said McCarter. He did his best to lead the speeding motor launch and started squeezing off short bursts with the Tavor, knowing he had little chance of hitting any of the men on the deck of the small, fast-moving craft from this distance.
“From up here,” said Grimaldi, “it looks like their circuits are getting wider. They’re going to try to break off at some point, once they think they’ve got enough range not to get cut apart when they give us their backside.”
“You’re right about that,” McCarter said. “Keep them moving. Our friends here have had enough Thorn rockets for one day.”
“Roger that,” Grimaldi said. “What do you want me to do once they start running?”
“Let’s follow them back to wherever they’re going,” McCarter said. “Small ships like that, they’re going to have another, bigger craft somewhere around here. Plenty of ships in these waters. It will make it easier if we know precisely which one we’re looking for. Have the Farm do some serious real-time imaging of what’s moving, too. If we lose them, maybe they can sleuth out what we’re hoping to find.”
It was the Farm’s satellite imaging technology that had given them the priority target list they now had. Kurtzman and his team of computer jockeys had found a crazy kind of pattern to the pirate strikes, or whatever they were, and had accurately predicted the assault on the Filipino ship. McCarter wondered what other wizardry the Farm’s personnel might come up with once they had some actual combat data to work with.
“David?” Grimaldi’s voice sounded again in McCarter’s ear. “Something’s up. I’ve got unusual activity on the deck of that ship. They’re dumping something into the water.”
Something white under the churning waves caught McCarter’s eye.
“Calvin!” McCarter called over his shoulder. “What do you make of that?” He pointed.
“Oh, hell, no,” James said. He looked at McCarter.
The Briton swore, grabbed James and threw them both to the deck. The action came none too soon. Whatever was in the water struck the side of the Filipino ship and exploded, shaking the vessel and throwing shrapnel up over the railing. McCarter flinched as something burned his cheek.
Some kind of klaxon began to sound belowdecks on the Filipino ship. The sailors trying to put out the fire on the deck became even more agitated, several of them disappearing below.
“What the hell was that?” James asked. “Some kind of torpedo?”
“We’ll figure that out later,” said McCarter. “Right now we’ve got to keep them off us. G-Force, did you copy that explosion? They’re using some kind of submerged hardware to target us. We may be going down. Do what you can to keep them off us.”
“On it,” Grimaldi said. “G-Force, out!” The Sikorsky immediately took a more aggressive posture, driving the motor launch farther and farther out.
McCarter didn’t know what kind of range the submersible weapons had, or whether the enemy had more of them, but when no more came spinning through the waves, he figured they were doing okay.
Grimaldi finally reported that the motor launch was heading off and asked for orders. “Should I follow as planned?” the pilot asked.
“Negative,” McCarter answered. He and James were making their way below now. Their weapons hung on their slings. The Filipino sailors looked at them strangely but seemed to understand that these men in combat fatigues without insignia were somehow on their side. If nothing else, the fact that McCarter had fired on the pirates had established that. Eventually, the two men encountered a man directing a work crew. Water was rushing in through a rupture in the hull, but the crew was moving fast to patch it. The man overseeing the action wore the uniform of a captain in the Filipino navy.
“Captain!” McCarter called. “English?”
The captain whirled and fixed them with a wide-eyed look. “I speak,” he said. “Who are you?”
“Friends, Captain,” McCarter said. “I’m with a regional counter-piracy force. Your government was told we would be in the area.”
“Chopper?” the captain asked. He pointed above his head, as if Grimaldi’s bird could be