Pirate Offensive. Don Pendleton

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      The rows of big diesel engines purred, and the ship carried more assorted firepower than anything Bolan had ever ridden. Half of the lifeboats were actually quad-formation .50 machine guns. A 20 mm M61 Vulcan that nobody had gotten to work properly yet was mounted at the bow, and the ship carried depth charge racks and torpedo tubes from what Bolan thought must have been a PT boat. A wooden cabin on the foredeck contained a short-barrel Howitzer. Bolan did not want to be anywhere near that antique when it was used, highly suspecting that it would do more damage to the Constitution than any enemy.

      This was their fourth trip across the Atlantic, and Bolan had stopped at every small island he could to cheaply sell weapons, mostly rifles and handguns, to each group of freedom fighters that he considered worthy of support. A few of them even got LAW rockets. Eventually, he figured, Narmada would learn that about the sales and come hunting. But so far, nothing.

      Major Cortez and her people, however, were delighted to learn about magnetic signs, and there were now a dozen names for the old war craft. At the moment, they were flying the Australian flag and bearing the name Dingo Bob.

      Unfortunately, it had been three long weeks at sea, and Bolan was running low on missiles, money and patience. He was starting to think this plan was a failure. The thought did not bother him very much. All battle plans were vulnerable to circumstance. He had known this ploy was a long shot, but had believed that Narmada could not resist the temptation of acquiring SOTA missiles to go along with his stolen microchips. Put together, the modified missiles would be unstoppable at short range.

      “Are you sure that last group wasn’t them?” asked Private Jenna Carrera, her hands moving steadily along the old wooden frame of her Browning automatic rifle. The wood gleamed from her constant administrations.

      Privately, Bolan appreciated her attention to details. He’d seen her shoot during the last pirate raid, and her accuracy approached his. Most impressive.

      “Sadly, no,” Bolan replied, turning up the collar of his jacket. “They were just a bunch of Somalis out for a fast raid. Slaves and guns. They’d have taken the ship too, if they could have.”

      “Not the Dingo!” Carrera laughed, working the arming lever and firing the weapon. Somewhere in the mist, a seagull cried out as it was hit and died.

      “You are very good,” Bolan said, giving his highest compliment. Just then, Carrera’s head jerked to the side, and a red geyser exploded out of her temple.

      Even before the corpse hit the deck, Bolan snatched away the BAR and started firing into the fog.

      “Incoming!” Bolan yelled at the top of his lungs.

      That was when he heard the unmistakable sound of a lawn mower. What the hell?

      Then the real source of the noise became clear, and he dove to the side, swinging up the BAR. Martins!

      Three irregular shapes descended through the mist, their angular wings kicking out powerful columns of hot air. As the men landed on the wet deck, they drew silenced weapons and spread out, shooting everybody in sight.

      Bolan waited until they were past him, then delivered a single thundering round from the BAR directly into the vulnerable fuel tanks. As gasoline gushed out of the holes, the men turned around fast, weapons blazing.

      They burst into flames instantly and started screaming.

      Firing again, Bolan put hot lead through their helmets, and their burning bodies tumbled into the water below.

      Blood mixed with fuel under the gentle wash of the rain. Removing the spent magazine, Bolan reloaded the BAR. Martin jetpacks! That explained how Narmada got his people onto the other ships so damn fast. Wait for rain, snipe any guards on deck, send in your flybys and start the slaughter.

      Having flown the bizarre machine many times before, Bolan knew the Martin was not actually a jetpack. That was just what it was called, merely advertising. Some crazy engineer down in New Zealand had discovered a way to modify the ducted fans of a standard military jetfighter to propel humans into the air. It flew at up to sixty miles per hour, with a thirty-minute flight time.

      But three men dropping in with silenced weapons did not make a boarding party, Bolan realized. They were a holding force.

      Muttering a curse, Bolan sprinted across the slippery deck and scrambled into the wheelhouse. As expected, the pilot and navigator were dead in their chairs, blood dripping from the holes in their heads, broken glass from the small windows scattered across the floor.

      Keeping low, Bolan locked the joystick into place, then hit the Master Collision button. A series of klaxons started to clang across the modified freighter, and he grabbed the hand mike.

      “Get hard, people. The pirates are here!” Bolan shouted, hoping his words were discernible over the deafening alarm. “All hands, battle stations!”

      A split second later, the loudspeakers started to howl with an eerie, modulating wail.

      Jammed! Casting aside the useless microphone, Bolan shoved the speed control to maximum, smashed the joystick with the butt of his rifle and dashed back into the rain.

      The mist obscured any possible view of additional Martins in the sky, but Bolan felt confident that Narmada would have sent in everything he had in the first wave. Hold the main deck, and the crew were prisoners.

      Unfortunately, there was also no way to see any incoming vessels. But Bolan knew they were coming. If they were all old Russian fishing trawlers, he could be traveling with a dozen ships. Bolan felt confident that the rebels could sink maybe half that number with their weaponry, but then the Constitution would be taken.

      Turning around fast, Bolan fired the BAR across the deck. The lines holding a lifeboat in place snapped, and the craft flipped over and dropped into the sea. An escape route. It wasn’t much, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.

      Reloading, Bolan started for the main hatchway. Kicking open the wooden door, Bolan frowned at the sight of several rebels sprawled on the metal stairs, a thick gray smoke issuing steadily from the air vents. Exhaling as hard as he could, Bolan stepped back into the rain and shouldered the BAR. He drew a knife and slashed off a wet sleeve, tying it around his face as a crude gas mask.

      Bolan descended the steps, his boots clanging on the corrugated metal. He headed straight to his cabin. He had U.S. Army surplus gas masks in a box stuffed under his bunk. Not enough for the whole crew, but sufficient for a handful of the Ghost Jaguars to fight.

      The gas continued to bellow out of every air vent, and Bolan was starting to feel dizzy by the time he reached his cabin. He had the key, somewhere, but he could not find it. Knowing unconsciousness was close, Bolan simply shot open the lock to his own room and staggered inside.

      He ripped off the blankets, yanked open a drawer and pulled on a gas mask. It took every ounce of his iron resolve to wait a few moments to check the seals before allowing himself a breath. The chemically scented air tasted bitter, almost foul, but Bolan gratefully filled his aching lungs.

      As the dizziness eased, Bolan stuffed a pillowcase with masks and lumbered back into the smoky corridor. He had no idea if this was a poison gas or sleep gas, but his gut reading on the pirates was that they would want the crew alive to open safes and move cargo. Corpses only fed the fishes. Live men could be made to work.

      Plus, there was always a market for sex СКАЧАТЬ