way to get there fast enough,” Blancanales said, pulling an M-16/M-203 combo from his duffel. “Our ape might not have jumped, and the damaged Chameleon could still be on the plane. They have to get there first, at any cost.”
Damn. Then Grimaldi would be taking McCarter to Ketchikan Island. The Coast Guard should have what the team needed. If not…
“Check your equipment,” Lyons directed. “We’ll be going to the testing area first. That’s the last place where anybody would hide their backup files.”
“Then why are we going?” Blancanales asked, puzzled, slapping in a clip. Then his face brightened. “Because it’s the best place for them to ambush us.”
“This crazy son of a bitch is trying to take the pressure off Phoenix Force,” Schwarz snorted, thumbing a fat 40 mm round into the breech of his M-203 grenade launcher. He closed the breech with a solid metallic snap. “Fair enough. Let’s rattle the trees, Carl, we got your six.”
Merging with the outgoing traffic, Lyons said nothing as he checked the .357 Colt Python under his jacket and sent the SUV heading for the coastal highway outside of Nome.
CHAPTER SIX
International Waters, North Pacific Ocean
The white Coast Guard cutter pitched and tossed in the churning ocean, waves crashing over the bow with drumming force. The evening sky was pitch-black, a cold rain pelting sideways through the fog.
Visibility was near zero. Off in the distance, the powerful beam of a Russian lighthouse was only a ghostly glow, and if there was a warning horn, its plaintive cry was swallowed whole by the near deafening crash of the endless waves.
“This weather couldn’t be any better!” David McCarter shouted in frank approval over the wild storm.
“God loves the infantry.” Hawkins chuckled as the cutter dropped five feet into a wave trench. “But I think He hates the Navy tonight. Hold on, here comes another big one!”
The men gripped the chain railing tight, bracing for the crash. For a full second the ship was in free fall, then it hit hard, the jolting impact almost tearing their hands away. Riding the recoil of the watery landing, Phoenix Force watched and listened to the rampaging storm, getting a feel for its tempo and rhythm. The unexpected squall was helping to mask the approach of the USCGC Mellon. That was the good part.
Unfortunately, the Coast Guard cutter was also falling way behind schedule and the team felt the pressure of the lost time bearing down upon them. The numbers were falling and not in their favor. Too many battles to count had been lost because of arriving late. However, they couldn’t afford for this to join those ignoble ranks.
“We’re going to have to leave early,” McCarter stated, wiping the water from his face with a palm. “Got no choice!”
“In for a penny, in for a pounding, eh, David?” Gary Manning joked, bracing himself as a giant wave swept across the lower deck to crash against the hull just below their boots.
“Pity we had to leave Ketchikan Island before seeing the Panama Guns,” Encizo said, casting a glance back toward the coast of North America, only a hundred miles away, but in this storm it might as well have been in other dimension.
“Not much left of those cannons anyway,” James replied loudly, squinting into the maelstrom. “Hey, I think the squall is easing some!”
“Good!” Hawkins yelled. “Still, they would have been nice to see! The Panamas were designed to stop the Russian navy from taking Alaska. Sort of the American version of the Guns of Navarone!”
“How big were they again?” Encizo asked, swaying to the pitch of the rolling deck.
“A whopping 155 mm!” Then he added with a grin, “Just about the size of decent T-bone steak in Texas!”
“You mean a deep-dish pizza in Chicago!” James shot back.
Whipped by the wind and sea, Phoenix Force shared a brief laugh as the men battled the squall and continued their vigil. Time was short, but professional soldiers knew how to wait until just the right moment, and then explode into action. It was all timing.
Inside the wheelhouse of the USCGC Mellon, a young helmsman turned from the joystick-style yoke and gave a scowl at the strangers below on the forward deck. Alaska had been clear sailing, but only fifty miles off the coast they hit this squall. Now cold rain was coming down in sheets, and the triple-blade window wipers fought to keep the bulletproof glass clear. But the raging sea and rain were mightier than the technology of man, and the wipers gave only brief slices of visibility, strobing glimpses of the churning sea and the rocky shore they were heading toward at full speed.
“Look at them out there,” the helmsman muttered in disapproval, involuntarily flinching as a wave slammed against the starboard windows. “Standing on the open deck! Crazy bastards.”
“Peterson, why are you talking to yourself?” Captain Tyson asked, hands clasped behind his back. In spite of the inclement weather, the officer was neatly dressed in a crisp uniform, his shoes shiny with polish and his hair freshly cut.
On the wall behind the officer was a line of yellow rain slicks, Veri pistol flare guns, fire extinguishers, a medical kit and a dozen lifejackets.
“What was that, Skipper?” the helmsman asked, checking the course and heading on the dashboard instruments.
“You know the standing orders,” Tyson stated. “There is nobody on the deck, not a soul in sight but you and me.” The captain paused. “And you sure as hell didn’t just call your CO crazy, now, did you?”
The helmsman swallowed hard and turned his face to the rampaging storm again. “Sir, no, sir!” he chanted, tightening both hands on the joystick.
“Didn’t think so,” Tyson muttered, moving to the motion of his cutter. Sonar showed the sea below was clear of Russian submarines, but the radar screen was filled with the storm, the computer unable to recognize a few small dots moving in from the west. They could just be St. Elmo’s fire; there was a lot of that out here. Or it could be MiG fighters moving just above the storm on a recon run.
“Maintain course and speed,” Captain Tyson said, looking out the windows at the squall.
“Aye, sir.” Concentrating on his job, the helmsman switched hands on the joystick to wipe the first one dry on a pant leg. Equipped with autofeedback, the computerized yoke wasn’t loose under his grip, but pushed back at him this way and another as the currents slapped the rudder about. It was exactly like holding a wheel and steering a windjammer. In spite of the mechanical interfacing, the joystick gave a man the feel of the water, and that was sometimes even more important than maps and sonar readings. Sailing was a science, but one that was ruled by art. The poetry of the wind was more than a clever saying; it was a way of life burned into the bones of every sailor.
Especially on this combination rescue vessel and warship. The USCGC Mellon was the pride of the Coast Guard. A Hamilton-class cutter, the craft was 378 feet long, with a crew of eighteen officers and 143 sailors. She boasted both gasoline and diesel engines, along with a flat bottom for faster speeds and the ability to go into amazingly shallow water without damage. The hull was composite armor over an aluminum frame, making the Mellon strong but lightweight. The windows
