Sky Hammer. James Axler

way? Seemed likely.

      While his team got the equipment in order, McCarter counted six machine-gun nests along the deck, the weapon emplacements disguised with canvas sheeting to try to resemble lashed-down packing crates. The radar was brand-new, and there were depth-charge launchers, rocket batteries and a lot of searchlights. The ship was a fortress. During the day, McCarter had counted more than a hundred men on board, three times what a craft of that size needed, and all of them armed with AK-47 assault rifles. Not exactly standard issue for the merchant traders, even in Communist North Korea.

      Just then a passing cloud blocked the moonlight and the Stony Man commandos quickly came out of hiding to slide into the waves. Adjusting their rebreathers, the team started swimming with the currents, slowly approaching the vessel. Visibility was only a few feet, but they knew from orbital photographs taken by NSA spy satellites that the underwater defenses were impressive. The sea floor around the ship was studded with sonar sensors, along with hundreds of chained mines. A submarine might be able to blow a path through those with torpedoes, but no enemy warship could possibly approach without being detected and destroyed. Only men could do that job.

      Checking a GPD, McCarter stopped the team a safe distance from the mines, and Calvin James activated a box on his chest harness. The device vibrated against his ribs as it generated the sounds of a large school of tuna. That should fool the sonar, but now came the hard part. Switching on scooters, the Stony Man team started into the minefield, the small military waterjets in their hands pulling them along as silent as ghosts.

      Slowly the murky depths resolved into a forest of mines, the huge metallic balls chained at different heights to form an imposing barrier. Up close, the spheres were festooned with seaweed that hung off them like Spanish moss on a tree. The dull surfaces of the mines were covered with trigger studs, and they swayed slightly to the motion of the ocean currents. Two of them clanged together, the noise unnaturally loud in the water. The men tensed, but then relaxed when there was no detonation. Obviously the mines were safe from contact with each other.

      Something large flashed by them and McCarter bit back a curse at the sight of a pair of dolphins. The damn things had come hunting for tuna! Pickings had to be very slim in the sea for them to come this close to land. McCarter started to turn off the sound generator, but stayed his hand. If he did, that would expose them to the sonar. Damned if they did, and damned if they didn’t. Only one chance, go faster!

      Playfully swimming all around the team, the dolphins kept searching for the elusive tuna and bumped into the humans several times. Thankfully there was no explosion. Pulled along by the whispering waterjets, the men of Phoenix Force tried not to think about what would happen it they did that to a mine.

      A last array of mines formed a dotted wall in front of the team, the spheres packed almost too close together for the scooters to traverse. Turning sideways, the Stony Man team shot through at full speed and reached clear water. A moment later the dolphins arrived, happily chattering to each other in their incomprehensible language.

      James killed the generator and the dolphins paused in confusion, then rose to the surface for a breath of air and came back down to disappear into the minefield.

      Ahead of the team loomed the cargo ship, the thick anchor chains extending into the dark depths.

      Turning off their waterjets, the men let the scooters float in place as they climbed aboard and proceeded to the belly of the ship. Stopping there for only a moment, the men moved on to the rear of the ship. No video cameras were discernable; the zone was clear.

      Reaching the propellers, Phoenix Force removed its swim fins and attached them to their belts. Swimming slowly upward, they moved among the huge propellers. If the blades started turning, the five would be chopped to pieces, chum for the sharks. But the propellers stayed motionless, and soon the team reached the hull of the vessel.

      Opening bags at their sides, the men donned sophisticated climbing gloves. Slow and silent, the five shapes moved along the thickest part of the hull where the soft pats of the gloves wouldn’t be heard by anybody in the engine room. Soon the surface shimmered above, the waves dancing with moonlight, and they rose like ghosts from the bay, moving hand-over-hand up the flat stern of the enormous vessel. Their wet suits were camouflage-colored orange, red and brown in irregular patterns. From a distance they should appear as just more rust spots. The effect was heightened by irregularly shaped backpacks and satchels that each man had strapped to his body.

      The five men reached the gunwale, then paused as a sailor walked by smoking a cigarette. Pulling on night-vision goggles, McCarter turned on the Starlite function and clearly saw that the man was dressed in civilian clothing. But his boots were regular North Korean army, and an AK-47 was strapped to his back. As the disguised soldier threw the butt of the cigarette overboard, T. J. Hawkins gave a low whistle, the kind men use to get the attention a pretty girl.

      Curious, the North Korean soldier glanced over the railing and looked down. Instantly Rafael Encizo rammed a Tanto combat knife directly into the man’s jaw, pinning his mouth shut so that no possible cry of warning could be given. Drowning in his own blood, the North Korean flailed, clawing at his throat, then went limp. Carefully, he was dragged over the railing and tied with ropes to be lowered into the water without a splash. As the corpse reached the sea, the rope was released and the body sank from the weight of his boots and assault rifle.

      Easing over the railing, Phoenix Force reached the deck and crouched, listening for any potential source of trouble. But the great vessel was silent; there was only the sound of the waves below. Everything else was still.

      Staying in a bunch to keep a low profile, the team donned dry sneakers from their packs and opened watertight bags to remove Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine guns, each barrel tipped with an acoustical sound suppressor. The weapons carried a flip clip, bound together with the service man’s best friend, duct tape. Warily, the men made sure that the clip carrying the half-load rounds was inserted into the machine guns. The reduced charge seriously lowered the firepower, but helped the suppressors do their job. The other side of the flip clip was standard ammo, armor-piercing, full charges. Just in case the suppressors failed.

      The sound of soft footsteps came from around the housing and Phoenix Force dropped behind the canvas sheet covering a machine-gun nest.

      Lightly resting a finger on the trigger of his MP-5, McCarter tracked the sailor strolling along the deck, an AK-47 on his back, both hands shoved into the pockets of his peacoat for warmth. It was obvious to the former SAS commando that the North Koreans weren’t expecting any trouble this night. Too bad for them.

      It had been known for some time that Kim Jong-il, the dictator of North Korea, had been trying to manufacture biological weapons to use against the democratic people of South Korea and the hated United States. Several labs had been found by the CIA and blown out of existence by NATO. But Kim kept trying to duplicate his success with a nuclear weapons program. Half of the trapped population of impoverished nation subsisted on starvation rations, but their “glorious leader” spent billions on creating weapons that might never be used, for a war that only he wanted.

      “Which way?” McCarter whispered, staying low.

      Pulling a personal computer from a pocket on his thigh, Encizo checked the glowing map of the boat. It was a compilation made from the structural blueprints of the dockyard where it had been constructed and a lot of guesswork based upon orbital photos and passive thermographic readings from shore.

      “Left,” the little Cuban said, starting forward.

      Proceeding along the deck, the five-man team kept close to the painted metal walls, pausing every now and then as somebody walked along the gunwale. The guards expected that any trouble would come from outside, and kept watching the sea, the sky and the distant shoreline, the small fishing villages and military slave camps twinkling patterns in the night.

      Soft light came from a series of portholes and the Stony Man operatives ducked low beneath them. Faintly, they could hear soldiers laughing and a television set blaring with a translated American sitcom.

      Maneuvering past the cargo hold, Phoenix Force passed a couple of guards on patrol and a pair of soldiers out