Don Pendleton - War Tactic

Fitzpatrick was ready for it. As Blancanales rolled through the fall, Fitzpatrick stuck to him like a shadow and when Blancanales started to rise again, the bigger man slammed the butt of his chromed pistol into the back of Blancanales’s skull. The Able Team warrior made no sound as he dropped to his hands and knees, stunned. Fitzpatrick stopped long enough to grin smugly at Lyons.

“Pretty proud of yourself, aren’t you, Tinkerbell?” Lyons said. “Beating up a couple of guys who can barely stand because the circulation to their hands and feet has been cut off for an hour. Yeah, you’re a real macho guy.”

Fitzpatrick kicked Blancanales, but it wasn’t a rib-cracker this time. Blancanales was able to roll away from the kick. The Blackstar man dropped on top of Blancanales anyway, wrapping one thick arm around his captive’s throat. Dazed as he was, Blancanales didn’t appear to have much of a chance, not the way this “fight” had been set up against him from the start. Fitzpatrick tucked his arm into the crook of his other limb and wrapped one hand around the back of Blancanales’s head in a classic rear naked choke. It wasn’t long before Blancanales was unconscious. Fitzpatrick dropped the commando and stood, once more facing Lyons.

“Just you and me now, champ,” he said.

“I’m game for a main event,” Lyons said. “Cut me loose and I’ll show you a few things.”

“You keep calling me Tinkerbell,” Fitzpatrick said. “You saying what I think you’re saying?”

“Tinkerbell’s a fantasy,” said Lyons. “That’s what you are. A fantasy. A legend in your own mind. I’m going to break you, Tinkerbell. I’m going to show you that the real life ain’t nothing like the badass fantasy you’ve built for yourself.”

“I gotta admit,” Fitzpatrick said, “that I did not see that coming. It was about the last thing I’d thought you’d say. And now I’m going to leave you alone in here with your buddies.”

“Come on!” Lyons shouted. “What are you afraid of, you coward?”

Fitzpatrick laughed. “You probably think you’ve got me figured out, big man,” he said. “But, news flash. You don’t. Much as I’d like to kick your behind all around this room, that’s not the game. Making you watch me beat up these two, now that’s the game. I’m going to come back every half hour, give or take. Just long enough for your guys to shake it off each time I clean their clocks. Of course, it’s going to get worse as I go. Pretty soon they’ll be lucky if they still remember math. Some teeth are going to come out. And before we’re done I may start cutting off fingers, just for the fun of it.”

“Keep talking,” Lyons warned. “Just keep talking.”

“I want you to think about that,” Fitzpatrick said. “I want you to think about what I just did, and what I’m going to do. Wait for twenty minutes. A guy like you probably can do it in his head. I don’t care if you count it off. Just wait for it. And when I come back, know that I’m going to keep taking your little boys apart until you give me the information. It’s not a lot to ask. It won’t even get anybody else killed. Are their lives—” he gestured to Blancanales and Schwarz “—worth what you’re withholding?”

The big Blackstar man took the time to strap the two Able Team operatives back into their chairs. Then he left, closing the door behind him.

Lyons blew out a sigh of relief.

Schwarz opened one eye. “Is he gone?”

Blancanales opened both of his. “I thought that guy would never shut up.”

“He talks almost as much as Gadgets,” Lyons said.

“Hey,” Schwarz complained. “That’s not fair. I think he cracked my ribs.”

“First good news I’ve heard all day,” Lyons teased.

“Then get ready for the second good news,” Blancanales said. There was a click. Blancanales shifted in his chair and, suddenly, his hands were in front of him, unrestrained. Using the folding knife he had lifted from Fitzpatrick’s pocket during the fight, he cut the fresh zip ties securing his feet. Then he cut Schwarz’s bonds and went to free Lyons.

“Gadgets,” Lyons said, “you still owe me twenty bucks.”

“Pol, can I borrow twenty bucks?” Schwarz said.

“Depends,” Blancanales answered. He held up the brown leather billfold he had also picked from the Blackstar commander’s pocket. “How much cash you figure a guy like that carries on him?”

“Captain!” shouted McCarter over the klaxon. “Keep your people working on the repairs. We’ll handle the threat out there!”

The Filipino captain seemed unconvinced, but stopping his ship from sinking was foremost on his mind. He said something that McCarter either couldn’t understand or could not hear—it was indecipherable to the Briton—and turned back to his repair team. McCarter, meanwhile, held his Tavor tighter to his body and rushed back up the gangway to take the ladder to the deck. James hurried close behind.

Once on the deck, McCarter immediately started taking fire. He ducked back, using the metal shell around the gangway for cover. “Look out! Contact forward!”

James scooted up around his team leader and managed to make the deck before sparks caught on the metal. Bullets rang like angry bees around both men. James was fast, though, faster than the enemy gunfire. He dodged in and around the structural outcroppings on the deck, using them for cover, working his way to the left. McCarter took the cue and started working toward his own right. The gunfire was coming from the bow, whereas they were currently amidships.

Abruptly a storm of wind and sea spray caught him in the face. He looked up, following the noise. The Sikorsky shot past, flying laterally, as Grimaldi lined up the nose. Then the great chopper’s guns and grenade launcher opened up, targeting a section of the water itself. McCarter watched, amazed, until the gunfire from forward of his position drove him back behind the cover of the next “step” in the deck layout.

“G-Force!” he called, pressing his transceiver against his ear. “Come in! What are you doing?”

There was still no reply. McCarter had thought perhaps something about the structure of the ship had interfered with their signal, perhaps depending on where Grimaldi was positioned relative to McCarter and James. But now, on the deck, with line of sight to the chopper, he still could not raise a signal. What the bloody hell was going on?

“David,” said James in his earbud, “I’ve got eyes on them. They’re hiding behind a railing about five meters from the bow. The area just to the left of the gray tarp. I’m seeing some grappling hooks, too. Looks like not all the pirates were blown up when we took out that first launch.”

“Makes sense,” McCarter responded. “The rats found the nearest sinking ship.”

Just then, another set of explosions rocked the damaged Filipino vessel. McCarter was drenched once more with spray. What he saw, when he looked to the sea once more, was bewildering for a moment. Grimaldi was still strafing the water and sowing the waves with 40 mm grenades. Then there was yet another explosion, bigger than what a grenade or even a series of grenades going off could create.

That cheeky bastard, McCarter thought. He’s detonating whatever those submersible torpedo weapons are. He’s keeping them off us.

There was no way to explain what was interfering with his communications with the chopper, but Grimaldi was obviously alive and doing fine…or as fine as a man could do while taking fire in a combat zone. There was small-arms fire coming from the second motor launch, the one that survived, and that boat was now making fast circles well wide of the Filipino ship. The idea, McCarter imagined, was to keep the launch out of range of the Filipino ship’s guns and to avoid becoming a target for the Sikorsky.