Don Pendleton - War Tactic

McCarter tried to gauge just how many men might be aboard that launch. It couldn’t be that many, given the boat’s size. If the fast-attack boat had carried a limited payload of Thorn rockets, that might explain why the crew had turned to whatever those torpedo-like devices were. He made a note to scan back through his dossier in the Farm’s mission brief to look for other technical specs on RhemCorp weaponry. So far, the Thorns were the only ones that had been used in previous attacks, and thus those were the only ones McCarter had bothered to familiarize himself with.

A shipment of rockets was one thing; weapons could go missing, and frequently did, when they were shipped overseas. But if the pirates were equipped with a full array of RhemCorp’s catalog, that looked very bad for Harold Rhemsen and his company.

None of which made a damned bit of difference right now, McCarter considered as the ship on which he was currently taking fire might sink out from underneath all of them at any minute.

“How many shooters do you have?” McCarter asked James. He did his best to work his way up toward the bow. The deck of the Filipino ship descended from the bridge area to the bow in graduated steps, each step bordered by a metal railing and whatever structural reinforcement was required for the equipment built into that area. This translated into plenty of cover, but it also meant the shooters near the bow could keep laying down bullets relatively unhindered from farther down the deck.

“I’ve got eyes on two,” James said. “No, scratch that. Three. One looks half scorched, but he’s mobile. They’ve all got Kalashnikovs and they look plenty mean.”

“They’ve got nowhere to go unless they take down this ship,” McCarter said. “If they can’t make it safe for the other launch to swing back and pick them up, they’re out of luck. I think the penalty for piracy, even internationally, is still hanging around these parts, mate. Can’t say I blame them.”

“Yeah.” James said nothing more for several moments, giving McCarter time to get into position.

Finally the Briton judged he was as close as he was going to get to the pirate boarders. Around them on the deck, fires still continued to burn, although the Filipinos had all disappeared. They were below, trying to keep the ship afloat. Hopefully none of the fires up here would get bad enough to seriously endanger the boat before they could be attended to.

From where he was now positioned, McCarter could see the tops of the three pirates’ heads. One of those heads was shaved bald and looked very red, then very black. Those were nasty burns. Shock and exposure might kill that man before somebody could put a round through his dome. For now, though, the pirate was mobile and fighting.

“I’ve got them, too, now,” McCarter advised James. “On my mark, I want you to lay down enough fire on the left to drive them over to the right. There’s a gap in the railing there. Just crowd them, mate. Drive them toward the gap. I’ll do the rest.”

“Affirmative,” James said.

“Now!” McCarter ordered.

James’s Tavor started belching 5.56 mm death. The Stony Man commando squeezed measured bursts from the weapon, which Phoenix Force had used many times before. The compact design and modular ergonomics made the rifle a favorite among combat troops. It was comfortable and accurate. The red-dot optics offered good, fast, target acquisition, and the rate of fire was quick enough to be truly fearsome.

From his position, McCarter was basically guessing. In combat, you took what you could get. Much like a hunter who ascertains his target then fires at the shadow where his target will be, McCarter simply waited for what light he could see through the gap to disappear. He did not need much. A single moment was all it would take.

There it was.

McCarter fired, just once, then once again for good measure. The shadow disappeared from the gap. That would be his pirate target falling away from the section of railing that had betrayed him.

“Lather, rinse, repeat,” James said through the transceiver. Once more he drove the pirates back toward the gap where McCarter could see them, and once more McCarter took the shot that was offered. The trick would not work a third time, however. No matter how hard James tried to light up one section of the railing, the third and final pirate simply would not move from his spot.

“I think he might be down,” James said. “I can’t get him to budge.”

A shot rang out from where the pirate was sheltered. There was a pause, then two more shots, one of which ricocheted close to McCarter.

“No such luck,” McCarter stated. “He’s still with us, mate.”

“Cover me,” James directed. “I’m going over there and have a talk with that man.”

McCarter allowed himself a tight, grim smile. When Calvin James had a heart-to-heart talk with someone, it usually involved the business end of a combat knife. The Stony Man commando was one of the most experienced knife fighters McCarter had known in his professional career.

The Sikorsky continued to make arcs overhead, its guns blazing, chasing and harrying the motor launch. Finally, though, the pirate craft stopped making circuits closer to the Filipino ship and started to recede instead. McCarter reached for his earpiece, intending to give Grimaldi orders. If they could make sure the ship was going to stay above the water line, the Briton would feel comfortable tasking the Sikorsky once more with pursuing the pirates back to their tender. No sooner had he touched the earbud than he realized, of course, that he could not.

The Sikorsky turned to present the cockpit to the deck of the Filipino ship. McCarter checked for enemy fire. There was none. The gunfire had all ceased. The only sounds now were the distant whine of the motor launch as it retreated, the crackling of flames aboard the Filipino ship and the ringing of the alarms belowdecks. McCarter stood and signaled Grimaldi to come closer.

As the chopper turned, McCarter could see that there was damage to the fuselage. Wisps of smoke trailed from a scorched hole in the helicopter. There was some connection between the damage and the radio failure, but McCarter had no idea what that could be.

T. J. Hawkins began to descend on a drop line. The youngest member of Phoenix Force hit his quick-release when he was still a couple feet from the deck. He dropped and absorbed the fall with his knees.

“Hawk,” said McCarter when he joined him, “what’s the condition of the chopper?”

“They hit us with something,” Hawkins said.

“One of the Thorn rockets?” McCarter asked, knowing as he said it that it could not be true. If the Sikorsky had taken a Thorn it would have been damaged much worse than it had been.

“No. Some kind of nonexplosive warhead that crippled our electrical systems,” Hawkins elaborated. “Jack is keeping the chopper up there, but there’s a whole lot that’s not working. He says he needs time to set her down and get her properly repaired.”

“Then following the pirates is out of the question,” McCarter said.

“Jack says we’re lucky he hasn’t taken up swimming, so I’d say yes, that’s about the size of it,” Hawkins drawled. “He says if you want anything, flash him with Morse where he can see you.”

“Bloody hell,” McCarter swore. “My Morse code is as rusty as my…well. Actually, it does seem to come up now and again, doesn’t it?”

The Briton worked his way around to where James had gone to have his “talk” with the third boarder. He found James going through the pockets of the dead man, who was slumped against the railing on the deck in a spreading pool of his own blood.

“Ghastly,” McCarter commented. “Did you put him down?”