Pirate Offensive
“A covert attack?”
“Exactly.”
“I see,” the commander said, leaning back in the chair. “So, we each have something the other wants. But can we trust each other?”
“No.”
“Good answer. Let me think on this,” she said, pulling out a cigarette pack. She tapped it on the bottom and one jumped up. She caught it between her lips then offered the pack to Bolan.
“Thanks, but I quit years ago,” he said. She shrugged, lit a match on the sole of her boot and inhaled. The rest of the rebels just stood there, watching him intently, waiting for the next order from their commander.
The muscles in his arms were starting to become warm, but Bolan was no longer likely to let go of the grenades. There was still plenty of time to negotiate. The rebels were poor but proud. They never would have accepted charity, or even a gift, naturally assuming there would be strings attached. But a deal, a trade, this they could accept. Besides, he would need a crew, and who better than the people who knew every nut and bolt in the vessel?
“What is your name, Yankee?” she asked out of the blue.
“Colonel Brandon Stone. And I am addressing...?”
“Major Esmeralda Cortez.”
Bolan nodded. “Major.”
“Colonel,” she replied in kind. “So, do you have a crew for our ship?”
“Nope.”
She paused. “Us? You also want us?”
“Who better than the people who built it?”
Major Cortez took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “That would require additional funding.”
“I expected as much. More missiles?”
“No, assault rifles. AK-47s with grenade launchers. And ammunition.”
“Not a problem. But the new model AK-101 is much better. Longer range, less ride-up, easier to clean.”
“Easier to clean.” She laughed. “Yes, you are a soldier. Politicians talk about firepower. Soldiers talking about keeping their weapons clean.”
“Damn straight.”
Major Cortez took another long, slow drag, then dropped the smoldering cigarette butt to the ground, crushing it under a boot heel. “You will be watched, and closely.” She rose from the chair. “At the first hint of treachery, you will be killed.”
“Accepted.”
“Then we have a deal.”
“Good.”
“Who is it you wish to kill? This enemy that you must get close to using...guile?”
“Captain Ravid Narmada, the leader of a pirate fleet that usually operates somewhere in the Atlantic.”
“Somewhere?” the balding rebel laughed scornfully. “Usually?”
Bolan shrugged.
“So you will draw him to you using the Constitution as bait,” Major Cortez said.
“Exactly.”
“This is intolerable,” one of the soldiers began with a worried expression.
“Jose, with the profit from selling half of the missiles delivered to us—”
“If they exist!”
The major gave a curt nod. “Yes, if they exist. But if they do, we could soon buy a second warship. The Russians are selling off their old diesel submarines very cheaply these days.”
“A submarine!” the burly rebel exclaimed.
Major Cortez gave a feral smile. “Imagine the surprise, Lieutenant Esteele, when a submarine rises from the middle of the Bay of Montevideo and uses its torpedoes to pave the way for the big gun of the Constitution, eh?”
From the expressions on the faces of the rebels, Bolan could see they liked the idea a lot.
“Two warships,” Major Cortez replied, using her fingers to brush back a loose strand of ebony hair. “A lion and a lamb. For the sake of the nation, I am willing to accept this risk.”
“Done,” Bolan said.
“Lieutenant Esteele,” the major said, “your new duties include watching Colonel Stone day and night. Guard him from harm, but one wrong move on his part, and you have my full permission to blow off his head—anywhere, anytime.”
“Yes, Major.”
“First order of business is to help me get these arming pins back in place,” Bolan said.
Pushing back his cloth cap, Lieutenant Esteele frowned, then bent over to retrieve the pins from the dirt and slid them back into the grenades.
Passing one of the deactivated grenades to the lieutenant, Bolan got a roll of tape from his pocket and lashed down the arming lever on the one he still held. But when he reached for the other, he saw that the lieutenant had already secured his grenade with a heavy rubber band and was slipping it into a pocket of his fatigues.
“Just in case, eh?” Esteele grinned without any warmth.
Nodding in acceptance, Bolan flexed his hands to restore proper blood circulation. “All right, Major. How long will it take to reach the Constitution?”
“A few days. It’s moored in the Cayman Islands. For a price, they are willing to hide anything for anybody.”
“Excellent. We can also pick up your first payment there.”
“And those are where?” a rebel asked.
“In the Cayman Islands. For a price, they’re willing to hide anything for anybody.”
“So I’ve heard.” Major Cortez laughed, slapping Bolan on the arm. “I like you, Yankee! Please do not make the lieutenant kill you.”
Chapter 3
Key West, Florida
It was a quiet night along the Keys, and the little chain of scattered islands looked peaceful. The elevated highway that connected them back to mainland America had almost no traffic, and the ocean was quiescent, the swells low and gentle, the breeze balmy and warm. A picture-postcard night for a tropical paradise.
There was no moon in the sky, which was keeping most of the honeymooners and tourists off the white sand beaches. Hot and jazzy Latin music emanated from a dozen bars and restaurants , and the police rode bicycles along the clean streets, mostly just watching out for drunks and the occasional lost child.
Sitting alongside each other on a stone breakwater, the two men waggled their bare feet in the air, each of them floating in a private cosmos.
““Hey,” one of them said suddenly, shaken from his reverie.
“What?”
“Fireworks, man. Look at the fireworks!”
Squinting into the distance, the first man laughed at what appeared to be an old fishing trawler sending out flares. This close to land? The crew could walk to the beach and never get their shirts wet. Strange.
“Got your camera, dude?”
“Always!”
“Shoot the ship, man. Something fishy here.”
“Ha! Fishy. Ship. No, wait...”
Suddenly, a red dot appeared on the wall between them. The first man tried to swat it away like an annoying bug. A split second later, something large zoomed across the water and slammed into the wall.
The blast threw both of them high, wide and in a hundred tattered pieces, the wall erupting into a fireball. The detonation rumbled across the sleepy town like an angry peal of thunder, rattling windows and setting off dozens of car alarms.
Onboard the trawler, Lieutenant Gloria Fields scowled at the laughing man standing nearby. “Was that really necessary?”
“A diversion to confuse the police,” Chung replied, tossing the spent rocket launcher into the ocean. “Now, let’s get those chips!”
Almost straight ahead of the trawler, onshore, sat a low, white stone building, three stories tall and surrounded by lush palm trees and exotic flowering bushes. The sign across the front read, “Maxwell Armatures.” No lights were on inside the structure.
“The microchips are in the safe on the third floor,” Captain Narmada said. “I want them all.”
“So be it,” Lieutenant Fields said, swinging a LAW rocket launcher onto her shoulder.
Pressing the release button, she extended the collapsible tube to its full length. As the sights popped up, the firing button was revealed. Spreading her legs slightly for a better stance, she aimed for the third floor corner and pressed the button.
A double volcano of flame and smoke erupted from both ends of the lightweight tube, the back blast extending for a dozen yards across the trawler and out to sea. A sharp stiletto of flame lanced from the front port, and the 66 mm rocket streaked away.
The rocket punched straight through the bulletproof windows then exploded inside, engulfing the entire third floor in a roiling chemical hell storm.
“Yee-haw!” shouted Chung as Fields shot a second LAW rocket into the building.
“Again,” said Narmada. “We need the lab leveled.”
“Whatever you say, sir.” Chung lifted a Carl Gustav from the open case of launchers on the deck.
Sliding in a napalm rocket, he hit the ground floor once more, the blast spreading outward from every broken window. The building started to sag, then tilt, wide cracks opening in the stucco siding.
Lieutenant Fields added two more LAWs into the crumbling foundation. The double blast did the trick, and the entire laboratory complex collapsed inward, throwing up a wild display of bright embers and swirling smoke.
Fire engines could now be heard, closely followed by the wail of police sirens and ambulances.
“Send in the tank,” Narmada said, lifting a LAW from the case. “I’ll handle these fools.”
The front of the modified trawler slammed onto the pristine white beach, and a LAV-25 armored personnel carrier, or APC, rumbled out of the hold and onto dry land. Charging forward, the driver smashed aside the white stone tide wall and everything else in its way.
When the LAV-25 reached the ruins of the Maxwell laboratory, the driver started moving around the rubble in concentric circles until the armored prow clanged into something very hard. Burning timbers fell away to reveal a squat, armored vault.
Like a soccer player maneuvering a ball toward the goal, the tank driver pushed into the heavy cube, knocking it out of the growing inferno and bringing it to rest safely on a relatively undamaged patch of parking lot.
Sirens screaming, three police cars, followed by fire trucks and ambulances, squealed into the parking lot.
From his position on the trawler, Narmada sent two LAW rockets directly into the cluster of emergency vehicles. Suddenly, the rear of the tank slammed open and out came a group of men wearing fire-resistant suits and driving a small forklift. They had a little trouble getting the safe onto the prongs, but it was finally accomplished, and the steel box was loaded with extreme care into the rear of the APC. The fit was tight, but the intel had been good, and the rear doors closed firmly.
Chung, Fields and Narmada watched the tank drive back toward the trawler.
“Keep an eye out for jet fighters from Gitmo,” warned Narmada, swinging up a Sidewinder missile launcher and activating the radar.
“Gitmo?”
“Or Miami. They’re both close enough to do a recon.”
However, the empty sky remained clear as the APC trundled back into the ship, and the landing hatch was cycled back into place. Leaving the harbor, the trawler headed directly out to sea.
* * *
SUDDENLY, CHUNG GAVE a cry and staggered backward on deck, his shoulder gushing blood.
“Impossible!” Fields gasped, squinting into the darkness toward the coastline.
A second later, wild gunfire erupted onshore, the bright flashes of a small-caliber pistol strobing on the beach. The shots seemed wild, erratic. But another incoming round hit the door to the wheelhouse, and a third zinged off a brass stanchion.
“Bastard got me,” Chung grunted, slapping a hand on top of the wound. “Filthy stinking islanders...”
“Did you really expect them not to shoot back?” asked Narmada, sounding almost amused.
“I thought we’d taken them all out!” Lieutenant Fields shouted.
Chung, stumbled to a weapons chest, pushing aside a Redeye and a LAW to triumphantly extract a very old four-shot rocket launcher.
“Clear the deck!” he screamed, then started shooting, not caring if there was anybody behind him to be obliterated by the back blast.
Soon, a wall of flames spread across the beach, and Chung tossed the rocket launcher overboard with a grunt of satisfaction.
“Get below and see the doc,” Narmada said, still watching the sky.
“I’m fine.” Chung winced as his arm moved.
“No, you’re not, and that was an order, not a request.”
Scowling darkly, Chung paused, then nodded and started toward the nearest hatchway.
“Sir...” Lieutenant Fields began.
“Long story, Lieutenant,” replied Narmada. “Suffice it to say that unless he draws a weapon and points it at me, my personal debt to Chung will never be canceled. Good enough?”
“Whatever you say, sir.”
The nameless trawler was just reaching the horizon, the fires on the beach disappearing below the waves, when the night was cut by the loud siren of a Coast Guard cutter streaming in from another Key. Without pause, Narmada and Fields both opened fire, and the cutter vanished.
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