Bolan smiled slightly. "It's not quite that bad, Captain. The key is we have to let them start the attempt. If you steam away now, they know we're onto them. Then they pick a new target and wait, and we have nothing to go on. If we can catch them in motion, we can shut them down permanently."

The captain sighed heavily. "Yes, I understand the logic. I just don't like the tactic of my battle group being used as bait with a nuclear weapon involved."

Bolan shrugged. "Yes, but it's only a small nuclear weapon."

The captain smiled almost against his will. "Oh, well, what the h.e.l.l, then. Let's do it."

Bolan spread out a map of the Adriatic that Kurtzman had sent him. "We're presently standing off the Jabuka shoals. This gives an enemy using a swimmer-delivery vehicle three avenues of attack. There are two ferry lines that cross each other west of your carrier group. At our position now, either one could deploy a swim vehicle in range of the Theodore Roosevelt. The other opportunity is the offsh.o.r.e islands. A swimmer-delivery vehicle could be launched from the major island of Vis, then leapfrog along the smaller islands to get within range."

The captain nodded. "So what do you propose?"

"You have one Los Angeles-cla.s.s 688 nuclear submarine with your battle group right now. Three more 688s from the Mediterranean fleet are steaming at full speed to join us now. They should be here in a matter of hours. Two Sturgeon-cla.s.s boats are coming in, as well. That will give us two pa.s.sive listening posts that we will deploy along each of the three possible routes the Red Falcons might take. When we detect them coming in, we go in and take them out."

The captain frowned and scratched his chin. "There's only one problem with your plan that I can see. The Adriatic Sea is shallow and muddy by nautical standards. The Jabuka shoal is only two hundred and sixty six meters at its deepest point. Sonar is notoriously inefficient in this kind of water."

Bolan nodded. "That's true, but we do have some advantages. They don't know that we're onto them, and they won't know that we'll have a net of submarines looking for them. Also we don't believe that Baibakov could have acquired the latest model of swimmer-delivery vehicles with enhanced stealth features. The United States doesn't sell them, and the Russian military can't spare any. If they did get their hands on a swimmer-delivery vehicle, it should be an older model, and somewhat noisier than the latest equipment Navy SEAL or Russian Spetsnaz are using."

The captain grunted. "There's still a h.e.l.l of a lot we're not very sure about."

The Executioner had to agree. "We can't even be sure they're coming at all. You and your ship are just the best educated guess we could come up with. But if they're coming, it'll be soon. They have no way of telling how long You'll stay in position. I'm willing to bet if they move, we're looking at a time frame of the next seventy-two hours."

"All right. So we wait and go about business as usual." The captain steepled his fingers. "What are you going to do when we detect them?"

"A helicopter will deliver me near their position. Once I'm in the water, I'll use a sonar phone to communicate with the nearest sub. They'll vector me onto the target."

The captain looked at Bolan narrowly. "And then?"

Bolan shrugged. "I'll nullify the threat." The captain shifted in his chair. "I don't mean any insult. You seem very capable. But, I'd be happier if a team of Navy SEALs was taking care of this."

"So would I. But when Baibakov called in threats all over the East and West coasts of the United States, the SEAL teams were deployed. I've been informed that SEAL Team Four is being rea.s.sembled and sent here, but I'm what you've got for the next twenty-four hours."

The captain nodded. "All right. I'll have a helicopter prepped and two crews rotating on standby for you."

Baibakov looked out across the Adriatic Sea.

His quarry lay just over the arc of the horizon. At nearly a hundred thousand tons of steel, it was the largest prey he had ever hunted. The Russian frowned slightly. To his mind it wasn't much of a hunt. It was like sneaking up on a mountain. There would be no trophy, either. Anything left over would be so radioactive it would have to be hung in a lead trophy case for the next three or four decades.

Baibakov snorted at an unbidden thought. It was really more like a fishing expedition. He would cast out his line, hook the target and watch its death throes. The idea amused him. The giant looked over at his rod and reel.

The delivery vehicle was little more than a torpedo with a saddle and handlebars. One man steered while up to four other men could hold on to struts sticking out of the sides. There was an equipment rack behind the saddle that accommodated the charge nicely.

Anton, Peter, Michael and Nicolas stood by the swimmer vehicle and examined their new weapons. They were the few Red Falcons that had any scuba experience, though all of them had been training intensively on the Greek resort island of Corfu for the past three weeks to prepare for the mission. In the last week of their training they had successfully "attacked" a Greek naval frigate and an oil tanker. They were amateurs compared to Spetsnaz divers, but they would be competent enough for the job at hand.

Baibakov raised a ma.s.sive hand at a pile of empty crates ten yards down the beach. "Test fire the weapons."

Anton grinned and stepped forward. He cradled a weapon that looked vaguely like an AK-74 rifle, except that it seemed to have a double magazine and its stock telescoped rather than folded. He snapped out the stock, shouldered the rifle, aimed at the crates and fired.

The gun snarled, and Anton nearly lost control of the weapon as it recoiled violently on full automatic fire. He lowered the weapon sheepishly. Baibakov looked down at the target. Anton had let out about a 15-round burst, and most of his shots had missed. But one of the crates had gotten hit. Four slender steel darts were impaled in the wooden slats.

The APS underwater a.s.sault rifle was one of the latest small arms in Russia's inventory, and the Russian military industries were eager to market it. The weapon had been designed expressly to deal with the problems of underwater combat for special-forces troops. Normal firearms malfunctioned as water entered their actions and filled their barrels. Dedicated underwater weapons were often equally useless on land. They often had limited range and could only fire one harpoon or projectile at a time.

The APS fired a 120 mm steel dart and held twenty-four rounds in the changeable magazine. It could be fired on land or underwater on semi-or full automatic. The only drawback was that the recoil impulse of firing a five inch steel dart on full automatic was horrendous. Baibakov frowned.

"If you must fight above water, fire on semiautomatic. Under the surface the water will help smother the recoil. Fire on full automatic under the water."

The men nodded.

"I cannot imagine you will meet any resistance, but it is best to be prepared. Each of you practice with a magazine full of ammunition to get the feel of the weapons."

The four men nodded again and began to fire single rounds into the stack of crates. Baibakov grunted to himself as steel darts tore through the crates with monotonous efficiency. The Red Falcons were all guerrilla-war veterans, and they adapted quickly.

Peter would drive the swimmer-delivery vehicle, while Nicolas and Michael planted the charge. Anton would provide security. It was a relatively simple operation once they got close. Getting them within range had been the greatest challenge, but the offsh.o.r.e islands had provided the means. A fisherman on the island of Vis had been all too eager to transport them and the swim vehicle to the outermost island near the Jabuka shoal. A motor skiff would return them to Vis, then back to the mainland once the mission was completed.

The Red Falcons fired their magazines dry, then reloaded their weapons. They looked up at Baibakov expectantly.

"Do you have any questions?"

Anton shook his head. "We are ready. Victory is at hand."

Baibakov nodded, then looked at Anton intently. "And if you are discovered?"

The man stood straighter, and his jaw set with grim determination. "It does not matter. If we cannot fight our way out, the weapon will still be detonated. America will pay for its crimes, and we will pay with our lives if necessary."

"Excellent, Comrade." The giant considered the four men standing before him. Fanatics had their uses.

He looked out across the Adriatic Sea again. "Get some rest. The attack begins in four hours."

21.

Mack Bolan sat in the pilots' ready room and waited. He had been waiting for six hours. His air tanks were charged, and his equipment was laid out and ready. Given the word, he could be ready to go into the water in five minutes. The soldier checked his gear again. He was more enc.u.mbered with equipment than he would have liked, but until the Navy SEALs arrived, he was solo and every piece was vital.

His swim board contained an illuminated compa.s.s, depth gauge and a sighting device to measure angles. In the dark water of the Adriatic it would be his only way of steering himself toward his target. His underwater-surveillance light looked for all the world like a short, fat, bright yellow bazooka. It had been designed to find submerged mines in dark water and could generate a three-thousand-candlepower beam. His sonar phone was perhaps his most important piece of kit. It looked vaguely like a small megaphone, and with it he could talk directly to whichever of the submarines had made a detection. Once in the water, he would navigate with the swim board as they vectored him in to the target. A waterproof radio was clipped to his diving-tank straps to allow him to communicate with the battle group when he surfaced.

The Executioner looked at his weapons. A pair of bizarre-looking pistols lay on the desk beside him. The Heckler & Koch P-11 consisted of a pistol grip with five black tubes mounted in a circle. Each tube contained an individual rocket-a.s.sisted dart. Bolan looked at the weapons. He was never happy about using new equipment that he hadn't checked himself out on. However, he had never known a weapon from the German firm to fail. Its lethal range underwater was supposed to be eighteen meters. Bolan knew all too well he would have to get a lot closer than that. Firing anything underwater was an iffy situation at best, and he had his doubts about the stopping power of the thin steel darts. He knew they were lethal, but they would have little hitting power. Shooting an opponent with the rocket-a.s.sisted darts would be like stabbing a man with an ice pick. Placement would be everything. He would have to get in close and put the darts into the lethal areas of the body.

Bolan grimaced. He suspected there would be between two and four Red Falcons on the mission, and he didn't believe they would sit by and idly let themselves be ma.s.sacred.

The soldier looked down at his final piece of kit, A Navy MK III underwater-demolitions knife lay strapped against his calf. The knife had a short, fat, hourgla.s.s-shaped handle with a lanyard for maximum retention underwater, and the six-inch black blade terminated abruptly into a wickedly sharp reinforced double-edged clip point. The knife could easily be stabbed into a steel military fuel drum. Bolan checked the elastic straps holding the knife to his leg. In his experience in underwater combat, it always came down to knives in the end. Down in the dark depths, the brutal diving knife strapped to his leg would be his last resort.

The Executioner glanced up as Valentina Svarzkova entered the briefing room with two steaming mugs. "I have brought you some coffee."

Bolan smiled tiredly and took one of the mugs. "Thanks."

The Russian agent clasped her mug in both hands and peered into the bitter brew with a frown. "I would go with you, but I am not scuba qualified."

"I know."

"I do not think Baibakov will be down there. I think this idea of blowing up your aircraft carrier is a suicide mission. If he was still in Spetsnaz, and he had been ordered to do this, he would go. But now he is in command, and I do not think he will go personally."

Bolan had to agree.

"Almost," she went on, "I think it would be better if he was going. Baibakov is crazy, but he is not suicidal. The Red Falcons, they are fanatics. If they get the opportunity, they will detonate the weapon when you attack them." Her blue eyes were greatly troubled as she locked her gaze with Bolan. "I believe you are in terrible danger."

The Executioner didn't know what to say. She was right. There was a very real chance he could find himself in the center of a nuclear fireball. "Don't worry. They'll never see me coming."

Svarzkova sat up resolutely and pulled up her jacket sleeve. "Here." She unstrapped the elastic bands holding her AK-47 bayonet to her forearm and handed the slender weapon to Bolan. "Take this. For luck."

The Executioner smiled. A little extra insurance never hurt, and he'd take luck wherever he could get it. He made a fist and held out his left arm. Svarzkova grinned and strapped the knife onto his forearm over his wet suit. "There. Now you are ready for anything."

Bolan slapped the sheath and was satisfied. The knife would stay in place. "I'll bring this back to you."

Svarzkova made a show of looking at him coolly. "You had better. I acquired that weapon from the first suspect I ever arrested. He made an attempt to kill me with it. I took it away from him and put him in hospital. It has been my lucky piece ever since."

The door to the ready room opened, and the captain of the Theodore Roosevelt entered. His face was grim as he looked at Bolan. "The USS Baton Rouge has detected an intermittent noise. It's six miles from the battle group, and they believe it's closing." The captain let out a long breath. "Are you ready?"

The Executioner nodded. "Tell the helicopter to start its engines. I'll be on the deck in five minutes."

The captain turned and left the room. Bolan shrugged into the web harness that held his tanks and strapped them down. He pushed the two rocket pistols into their plastic holsters on his dive belt and shouldered his swim board and the underwater surveillance light. "Let's do it."

Bolan strode down the steel pa.s.sageway and walked out onto the Theodore Roosevelt's flight deck. He narrowed his eyes at the sun and calculated. The sun was beginning to sink low in the sky. If the Red Falcons were six miles out, they would reach the carrier at just about dusk. It was well thought out. They Would have just enough daylight to find the carrier easily and attach the charge, then darkness would cover their escape. Given the situation, it was the way he would have done it.

Out on the deck a white-painted Sikorsky Seahawk had its rotors turning. Its doors were open, and two men stood in position behind door-mounted M-60 machine guns. Bolan strode up to the door and nodded at one of the gunners. "You're my ride?"

The man nodded. "Yes, sir."

He clambered into the helicopter. The gunner raised an eyebrow as Svarzkova climbed in after him. She shrugged. "I would go insane waiting on the carrier."

The Executioner handed her a life jacket. A lieutenant shouted to them from the c.o.c.kpit. "You ready?"

Bolan nodded. "Let's do it!"

The aircraft vibrated as its engines roared up to takeoff speed, then the helicopter lifted off the deck, The Seahawk rose, then dipped its nose as it accelerated over the water. Bolan moved to the c.o.c.kpit. "Where was the contact the last we knew?"

The pilot shouted over the rotor noise. "Approximately six miles out. The Baton Rouge is shadowing the signal on a parallel course about two thousand yards to starboard. I'm going to drop you in on an intercept course one hundred yards to port of the contact. You'll be in a direct line forty-five degrees northeast of the Baton Rouge. They'll vector you in."

Bolan nodded and looked out across the water. The Adriatic was gray, and the winter storms had raised up sand and mud from the bottom of the shallow sea. Fifty feet was the visibility he had been quoted on the Roosevelt, but looking out across the water the soldier suspected it could be much less. He would probably be right on top of the Red Falcons before he saw them.

The Executioner took a seat in the cabin and waited as the helicopter swept low over the sea. Behind him the aircraft carrier and her escort ships looked like islands of gray steel. To the south he could see small rock islands jutting up out of the sea. Those islands had probably been the launch point. Bolan wondered if Baibakov was there, waiting among the rocks for the fireworks to begin.

The pilot shouted back into the cabin. "Approaching drop point. Get ready!"

Bolan stood and checked his diving rig a final time. It had been checked and rechecked. There was little to do now but get into the water. The helicopter slowed to a hover and began to drop down. Bolan went to the right-side door and pulled his hood over his head and sealed his mask against his face. His air system was a self-contained breathing apparatus, and would let no bubbles escape to betray his presence. His air pressure was fine. He shouldered his equipment and stood in the door frame as he waited for the final signal.

The Seahawk's pilot shouted again. "Ready?"

Svarzkova raised up on her toes and spoke against Bolan's hood. "Luck!"

Bolan slapped the knife against his arm as the pilot shouted, "Diver away! Go!"

The Executioner slid into the cold water of the Adriatic Sea. Visibility was barely thirty-five feet, if that. He looked down at the illuminated compa.s.s on his swim board. He kicked his fins and oriented himself forty-five degrees and unclipped his sonar phone. He put the mouthpiece against his mask and aimed himself at the position the USS Baton Rouge was supposed to be. Bolan pressed the Send trigger. "Baton Rouge, this is Belasko. Do you copy?"

Bolan pressed the receiver against the side of his head. A moment later the tight-beam sonar pulse from the Baton Rouge was picked up by the sonar phone's ear. "Belasko, this is Baton Rouge. We have your position and are picking you up loud and clear, over."

He pressed the phone to his mask. "Vector me in, Baton Rouge."

"Roger, Belasko. Descend to sixty feet and take a course fifty degrees southeast."

Bolan nosed his swim board down and began to descend. As he hit sixty feet, he shifted around to the southeast and began to kick powerfully toward his intercept point. Bolan turned his head and spoke into the sonar phone. "Completed maneuver, am heading in."

"Roger that. You are on course."

He kicked ahead and kept his eyes on the dull green glow of the compa.s.s needle, which pointed him toward his prey like an accusing finger in the gloom. Bolan craned his neck around and squeezed the sonar phone's trigger. "What's my position, Baton Rouge."

"Fifty yards and closing. Swim faster."

Bolan kicked harder through the still depths. "Position, Baton Rouge?"

"Twenty-five yards and closing. Maintain speed. You are on a collision course." The soldier swam through the murk. It was starting to get darker as the sun sank and less and less of its light was filtering into the depths. Bolan scanned ahead. "Where are they, Baton Rouge?"

"Ten yards, Belasko."

Bolan grimaced as he shifted his glance through the gloom. "I don't see them." The voice sounded tense. "You're almost on top of them. Directly southeast." Bolan looked down at his compa.s.s and shifted his position to coincide with the needle. "Contact, Baton Rouge. Belasko out."

The Executioner dropped the sonar phone on its belt leash. Ahead a large dark shape was slowly becoming visible out of the murk. It was a long, dark, humped object that vaguely looked like a tiny whale. Bolan leaned on his swim board and brought the surveillance beam to his shoulder. His right hand drew one of the Heckler & Koch P-11 rocket pistols. Bolan waited. He wanted to get as close as he could before firing.

The Executioner kicked in place as the swimmer-delivery vehicle approached out of the depths. The outline of the vehicle was becoming clear. The torpedo-shaped hull had a rider on top who was steering, and three other men trailed off tow bars like lampreys. Bolan's finger tightened on the trigger of the surveillance light. If he could see them, they could see him.

It was time to take that away from them. Bolan squeezed the surveillance light's trigger.

In the murky water the sudden glare of the three-thousand-candlepower beam was like the spotlight of G.o.d. The riders started and looked directly into the light in surprise. Bolan extended the P-11 and put its crude front sight in the middle of the steersman's chest and squeezed the trigger.

A streak of bubbles shot from the muzzle and drew a line directly toward the steersman. Bolan squeezed the trigger twice more, and the sizzling lines converged against the dark backdrop of the steersman. The man jerked as the rocket-propelled darts struck him, and he slowly leaned forward over his steering bar. Bolan shifted his aim and fired at the lead man on the starboard tow bar. A dart shot out and drew a line through the water into his shoulder. The man jerked and raised a dark object in his hand. The soldier fired again, and his last rocket knifed through the water.

Bolan's eyes flared in surprise as red flame burst from the man's weapon and a staccato thumping noise rolled through the water. A formation of hissing lines streaked toward him. He saw his own dart hit, and the man released his weapon and grabbed his thigh. Bolan dropped the spent P-11 and yanked his swim board in front of him. The water was suddenly plunged into darkness as his finger left the surveillance light's trigger. The swim board shuddered in his hands as the swarm of projectiles struck it.

The Executioner released the board and swam off hard to his right. His one advantage was that the Red Falcons had been momentarily blinded. Streams of projectiles streaked through the water where he had been a moment earlier. Bolan swam in closer and drew his second rocket pistol. He extended the surveillance light and lit up the swim vehicle again. The driver was still slumped over the steering bars and not moving. Without his hand on the throttle, the vehicle had slowed to a stop and had begun to slowly sink. The other man Bolan had shot had released his tow bar and was trying to make for the surface, still clutching his wounded leg.

Two Red Falcons were still a threat. One was bent over a rack behind the steersman with a flashlight in his hand. The other man was aiming a weapon into the glare of the light.

Bolan ignored the weapon and aimed at the terrorist working behind the steersman. The Executioner didn't know for sure what he was doing, but a cold feeling told him he couldn't afford to let him finish. He aimed the P-11 and squeezed the trigger four times. The hissing streaks of the rocket projectiles arrowed through the water and drew streaming lines into the neck and shoulders of the man bent over the rack. His flashlight suddenly went out.