War Tactic

PROFIT PIRATES

Tensions between China and the Philippines are on the rise, and a series of pirate attacks on Filipino ports and vessels only makes things worse. Phoenix Force discovers that the pirates are armed with American weapons. As they struggle to neutralize the threat on the sea, Able Team must hunt down the mastermind behind the attacks before the United States is forced into war.

STONY MAN

The best military fighters and cyber techs from around the world, the Stony Man teams are on the front lines of America’s war against terror, wherever it takes them. These elite black ops warriors put their lives on the line in the name of freedom.

“NOW, GARY, NOW!”

Manning made no reply. He didn’t need to. The automatic grenade launcher began spewing 40-millimeter 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.

McCarter turned his attention back to the boat that was still moving.

Grimaldi did the same. 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 didn’t look military. At least, they weren’t wearing uniforms. But there was more. Military men had a certain bearing and, from what little he could see through the smoke, the sailors on the motor launch didn’t have it. They were casual. Pirates, or maybe civilian contractors. But how would such men get their hands on the latest high-tech weapons from the US, weapons whose export was strictly controlled?

Either RhemCorp was careless or RhemCorp was dirty. But they didn’t yet know which.

War Tactic

Don Pendleton

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

Prologue

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

EPILOGUE

Copyright

The South China Sea

Yanuar Wijeya squinted at the ship in the distance as he stood on the bow of the Penuh Belut, a rust-eaten, twenty-five-meter dhow, or Arab freighter, that served as the mother-tender to his two fast-attack motor craft. Salt spray flecked his face. In his gnarled fingers he held a pair of binoculars, only one half of which still worked. The other set of lenses was badly cracked and stained. With one eye closed, he could see his first mate, Mhusa, in the lead fast-attack vessel. The deceptively soft popping of gunfire, mild at this distance, told him that his men were already taking fire from the Filipino freighter.

The freighter was a large one, many times the size of his own craft. While it could have outrun the Penuh Belut, it had no chance to flee the motor craft. The captain of the Filipino vessel had opted to turn and fight rather than let Mhusa’s crew use the freighter for target practice.

Wijeya wore combat boots without laces on otherwise bare, callused feet. His cut-off jeans were bleached yellow-white from dirt, oil and the pitiless sun. The handle of a machete jutted from the MOLLE-equipped scabbard on his back, which also bore a pistol-grip shotgun. In the rhinestone-studded belt that barely held his pants above his hips, Wijeya carried two Indonesian kerambit knives. The ring-handled knives with their curved blades were the only reminder of his homeland, which was otherwise a place he was happy to leave behind. Also behind his belt was a pitted Soviet Bloc Makarov pistol. Wijeya had himself pried the pistol from the fingers of a dead man.

From the pouch tied to his belt, Wijeya took a khat leaf, telling himself he would permit himself no more this afternoon. The drug was a pleasant one, a stimulant that sharpened his senses, helped him keep his edge. He had, however, seen too many men fall under the spell of the leaves. He had no desire to hollow himself out, or worse, to become distracted and sick if the supply were to dry up. Khat, like every other luxury aboard the Penuh Belut, ebbed and flowed. There were days that they were rich and days that they were poor. Until very recently, the poor days had far outnumbered the rich ones.

But not so much now.

As if his benefactor could read his thoughts, the satellite phone in Wijeya’s pocket began to vibrate. Sighing, the pirate captain pulled the device out and pressed the glowing green key. The voice he heard was familiar. Its owner had never wasted time saying hello to him, or asking after the well-being of his crew.

“Are you on schedule?”

“We are doing it now,” Wijeya answered. He was not an uneducated man. He spoke English well; he had attended the National University of Singapore, a final gift from his once-affluent parents. His father had been a supremely arrogant man, unable to see the folly of his ways even when a series of reckless investments had left the family destitute. The thought made Wijeya want to laugh. His benefactor reminded him often of his father. It was the haughty way both men spoke. Perhaps, one day, the invisible man on the satellite phone would swallow a gun barrel the way Wijeya’s father had.