BOLAN DIDN’T TRUST this self-identified CIA guy Jim Wong any farther than he could keep a sight picture on him. He had the Company rap down, but his story was too pat and something felt very wrong about him. Even so, if he could lead him to where Garcia was planning to launch his attack, he could be useful. That he was following his lead, however, didn’t mean that he trusted him.
“It’s one more deck up,” Nguyen said quietly, pointing to a stairwell. “But we’ll have to be careful. They’ll have it guarded.”
“You’d better lead the way then.” Bolan motioned with the muzzle of his H&K subgun.
With a gun at his back, Nguyen had no choice but to start up the carpeted steps. When he reached the top, he knew that he would break into the lounge area around the main pool. He expected that Garcia was deep enough into his paranoia to have posted a strong guard over his doomsday weapons. If there were enough fighters up there, it might give him a chance to make a break.
Nguyen was mounting the last two steps when he realized that the big American was close behind him. “Keep going,” he heard the man say as he felt the muzzle of his subgun nudge him. “And don’t make any sudden moves.”
When Nguyen came out of the stairwell, the Cuban fighter nearest the stair turned, but when he saw who it was, lowered his AK. Bolan stepped past Nguyen and shot the Cuban in the head before sweeping the room with well-aimed bursts.
As his fighters fell, Garcia snatched up one of the rocket warheads and turned to flee.
“That’s the guy behind this!” Spellman yelled. “Don’t let him get away!”
As Bolan turned to see what Spellman was shouting about, Nguyen saw his chance. Spotting an AK on the deck, he snatched it up and spun on Spellman, who was closest to him.
The doctor caught the movement from the corner of his eye and turned just in time to escape most of the short burst of AK fire. He felt two blows in the side that sent him crumpling to the deck.
Bolan spun to face the new threat and saw Wong swing his AK toward him. He dropped flat as a burst of fire cut through the air over his head. Rolling over onto his back, he snapped a short burst at the “CIA” man.
Nguyen staggered as the slugs tore through him. Shock and surprise showed on his face. He tried to raise his AK again, but another burst tore through him and he fell.
Bolan kneeled beside Spellman and opened his fatigue jacket. He’d taken one round through the side of his abdomen and another one farther up had broken a rib. Both would be painful once the shock wore off, but neither was life-threatening for the next few hours.
“I’m okay,” Spellman gasped as Bolan felt for further damage. “Go after Garcia.”
“After I patch you up.” Bolan reached for the battle dressing on his assault harness. “I don’t want you to bleed to death before I can get some help on board.”
Doctors were infamous for not being good patients, but Spellman was willing to leave his care to the commando’s experienced hands. He knew he wasn’t the first gunshot casualty this guy had patched up.
“When you see Mary,” he said, “tell her—”
“I’ll be telling her that you’re going to be okay.” Bolan cut him off. Spellman was in shock, and he needed to have his mind focused on surviving, not on what would happen if he died.
He tied off the ends of the dressing and took two pills from his med pouch. “Take these.”
Spellman didn’t even ask what they were.
“Here’s your AK.” Bolan handed him the assault rifle. “Keep an eye on this place.”
“Go after Garcia,” Spellman gasped. “He took one of the bombs.”
“I’ll get him.”
BOLAN WENT in pursuit of Garcia. When he saw the sign directing passengers to the main dining room, he had a hunch and decided to check it out. The passageway covered his approach right up to the entrance. Through the glass doors, he saw that the dining room was crowded with what looked to be a hundred women and children. Beyond the rigors of their extended captivity, they didn’t appear to have been mistreated. They were, though, obviously scared. At least five terrorists were holding AKs on the group while an older man shouted at them and waved his arms in the air. On the table in front of him sat one of the warheads he had seen on the rockets.
When the women started moving up against the wall at the side of the room, Bolan had seen enough. He didn’t have to know what the leader was saying to know that a massacre was in the offing. With the women moving to one side of the dining area, though, the guards were now in the open. The stage was set and the play could begin.
Bolan flicked the selector on his MP-5 SD-3 down to 3-round-burst mode. His booted foot slammed the door open and all heads turned his way. It takes a split second for a human to focus and then react to the unexpected, but Bolan didn’t give the guards a break.
The MP-5 in his right hand whispered silent death while the Desert Eagle that filled his left bellowed. With only five targets to work with, Bolan cleared the room before the last .44 shot had time to echo away.
The women and children were screaming and crying, but Bolan ignored them as he walked up to the older man he had figured to be the Cuban boss man. “It’s over,” he told him, the muzzle of his Desert Eagle unwavering.
“Yankee bastard!” Garcia roared as he lunged for the warhead.
The .44 slug exploded the back of the Cuban’s head, ending his migraines for all time.
“Just stay here,” Bolan told the hysterical women. “Block the door after I leave and don’t let anyone in unless you know they are Americans. I’m going to try to get us some help, but I don’t know how long it’ll take.”
BOLAN FOUND only one terrorist on the ship’s bridge and dispatched him with a single silenced shot from the 93-R. The Cuban in the radio room looked up in time to receive the same treatment. Bolan pried the microphone out of his hand, switched the radio to the Coast Guard Marine Emergency Channel and keyed the mike.
“Any station,” he said, “any station. This is the cruise ship SS Carib Princess presently in Miami harbor. Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. Any station, come in please.”
“Carib Princess,” the Coast Guard radio operator replied, “this is Group Miami, what is your emergency? Over.”
“We need emergency medical assistance on board as soon as you can get it here. Over.”
“Who are you? Over.”
“Let’s just say,” Bolan replied, “that I’m a concerned American citizen trapped on this tub. And I’m telling you that there’s a ship full of people here including women and children who need help immediately. I need some medical teams and a military HazMat unit on board ASAP. Over.”
“Where are the terrorists? Over.”
“Most of them are dead,” Bolan replied, “but there’s enough still alive that the medics will need a SWAT team or two with them for protection. If you’ve got any Delta Force Hostage Rescue Team people out there, send them. Over.”
“Mister, whoever you are,” the radioman said, “I can’t just take your word on this. I’m not sending medics onto a trap to become hostages themselves. Over.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Bolan said wearily. “Get hold of the Justice Department element. I know they’re hanging around somewhere, and ask to talk to Hal Brognola. Tell him that Striker needs some help over here. Over.”
“Who? Over.”
“Hal Brognola of the Justice Department. He knows who I am. Over.”
“But who the hell are you? Over.”
“I’m Striker. Over.”
“Stay on the radio until I can confirm this. Over.”
“I’m a little busy right now trying to stay alive,” Bolan snapped. “So get your ass moving. Over and out.”
Bolan pulled the radio mike from the socket and put it in his pocket in case he needed it later. Right now, he had to keep working on the opposition to keep them off balance so the reinforcements wouldn’t have to face hot landing zones.
HAL BROGNOLA was in the barely controlled chaos of
the Justice Department tent waiting to make another report to the Oval Office. The Man wanted updates every half hour even if there was nothing to report. And he had insisted that Brognola make the report in person instead of having one of his com techs do it. Each occupant of the White House had his idiosyncrasies, and this was just one that came with this particular incumbent.
From the corner of his eye, he caught something going on at the entrance and looked up to see a Coast Guard Lieutenant Commander rushing into the tent. “Is there a Hal Brognola of the Justice Department around here?”
“I’m Brognola,” he called. “What’s up?”
The officer rushed over to him, waving a hard-copy printout in his hand. “Are you Brognola of the Justice Department?”
Brognola nodded. “I said I was, why?”
“May I see your ID, please.”
Brognola dug his wallet out of his coat pocket, flipped his badge case open and displayed his ID.
The lieutenant peered and relaxed. “I’ve got a message from someone who calls himself Striker. He says he needs medics and a military SWAT team on board that ship.”
“Give me that—” he reached for the fax “—and get ready to transport the people he wants.”
“I’ll need to get that from my higher command.”
“Is the President high enough in the chain of command for you?” Brognola snapped, putting his hand on the secure hotline to the White House. “If you want, I can get the Man on the phone right now.”
The officer didn’t feel like trying his luck today. This was such a rat screw that it just wasn’t worth it. “No, Sir,” he said. “I’ll arrange immediate transport.”
“Thank you.”
As soon as the man cleared out of earshot, Brognola clicked in his com link to the Stony Man command center. “Barbara,” he said, “he’s still alive. He called the Coast Guard and requested Delta Force and medics.”
“Thank God. What can we do to get him out of there?”
“Right now, nothing,” Brognola replied. “He only asked for medics and the Delta Force.”
“I’ll have Buck get some of his people down to the dock,” she said.
Brognola hesitated for an instant. He, too, realized that things were moving too fast to keep to any preconceived plan for how to handle the situation. “Go ahead,” he said. “But tell him to wait for me.”
“You’d better hurry.”
The Man was expecting a call in ten minutes, but this time he was the one who was going to have to wait.
The rotor blades were spinning on Stony Man’s borrowed Black Hawk chopper when Brognola ran onto the makeshift landing pad.
“Get it in gear, Hal,” Buck Greene shouted from the open door.
Hands reached to grab him and drag him inside right as the pilot pulled pitch and the Black Hawk lifted off. It was a very short flight to the docks opposite where the Carib Princess was anchored, but no one had time the time to waste taking a motor vehicle trip.
The Black Hawk had no sooner touched down than the blacksuits were out the door and taking up a perimeter around it. Brognola stepped onto the tarmac and saw that the Coast Guard already had several smaller craft standing by at the dock, and the wail of approaching ambulances could be heard. There was no sign yet of a SWAT team or the Delta Force guys, but he knew they’d be coming fast.
Exactly what they would do once they got here was yet to be seen, but he was tired of hanging back and he knew that Greene and his men were champing at the bit, as well. He took out his secure cell phone and put in a call to the White House.
“Okay,” he told the Stony Man security chief, “the Man gave us the word to go to work and give the medics cover.”
That wasn’t exactly what the President had said, but taking a page from Price’s playbook, he was putting his spin on it and hearing only the part that he wanted to.
Greene glanced over at the Black Hawk. “How do you want us to do it?”
“How about a fast repel onto the top deck?”
Greene nodded. “If our pilot is from McDill, he should know how to do that.”
“Get them going,” Brognola said.
Greene let out a shout and two of his squads sprinted for the bird. Another shout got the pilot scrambling to light his turbines. In less than ninety seconds, the Black Hawk was in the air.
BOLAN HEARD the sound of a military chopper approaching hot and low. It could have been just another fly-past to have yet another look-see, but then he heard the distinctive change in sound as the pilot chopped his pitch. Whoever they were, they were going to make a landing and it sounded as though they were coming in on the uppermost deck. He broke off his search and headed up to meet his visitors.
When Bolan heard a voice he recognized bellow a command, he smiled. The Stony Man cavalry had arrived. Somehow Brognola had managed to get Buck Greene and some of his blacksuits into the game. That would make finishing this up a lot easier. If, that was, he could make contact with them without getting shot. With everyone on the boat wearing basic black combat suits, it would be easy for him to be mistaken for one of the Cubans.
Again, a lack of communication was going to make this link-up more difficult than it needed to be, but he knew that Greene would be on the lookout for him and that would slow his trigger finger.
BUCK GREENE was on point as the blacksuits moved through the lounge on the upper deck when he heard a voice he knew well, “Yo! Jarhead!”
Greene looked and spotted Mack Bolan at the far end of the open area. He waved and keyed his throat mike. “I’ve got him,” he transmitted, “and he’s on his feet.”
“How many people did you bring?” Bolan asked.
“Twenty, counting myself.”
“Good, let’s get going.”
“After I get you properly outfitted.” Greene reached into his fanny pack and pulled out a pocket badge bearing Department of Justice insignia and the title Senior Special Agent.
“Here,” he said, handing it over. “A little sheep dip. Put it on your left pocket.”
“Got a photo ID to go with it?”
Greene went into his left jacket pocket and pulled out a properly battered federal ID card. “Your ticket to the ball, Cinderella.”
“It’s a little late, but thanks.”
“Now,” Greene growled, “let’s get the rest of this tub cleaned up.”
“We’ll start from here and work our way down,” Bolan said. “And get back to Hal and tell him that it’s okay for the medics to come in where you did as long as they’re escorted. By the time they get here, we should have most of the rest of this tub under control.”
THE WORD of Diego Garcia’s death had gone through the remaining Matador fighters like a hurricane. Some fearing American vengeance decided to fight to the death rather than be executed, but enough of them put their AKs down and their hands up that the odds were evened out considerably.
With Bolan leading, the blacksuits went from one deck down to the next, relentlessly double teaming the remaining Cubans. Those who were smart enough to hang it up when they had a chance got riot cuffs, a swatch of duct tape over the mouth and were left behind. Those who put up a fight were simply taken out of the play—permanently.
After clearing the ship’s superstructure, Bolan led the blacksuits onto the open deck at the stern. A quick look revealed that some of the men in the human shield wall had leaped into the water when the firefight had broken out. Others, unwilling to leave their wives and children behind, remained and faced off the Cubans. Several had been killed for their efforts and others lay wounded.
“That’s going to be a little tricky,” Greene observed.
“Let’s sweep both sides at the same time,” Bolan said.
“Got it,” Greene replied before clicking in his com link to split the blacksuits into two contingents.
While Greene took his group and started up the portside of the ship, Bolan took the remainder and headed for the starboard. They were spotted almost the instant th
ey broke into the open, and the reaction was almost comical.
The first Cuban took one look at what was coming at him and jumped over the railing. The next one made the mistake of trying to fight and was gunned down in an instant. Several of the passengers took this opportunity to vent at their soon to be ex-captors. A few of the ex-hostages were shot for their efforts, but more of them got revenge for their imprisonment, some of it fatal.
Bolan and the blacksuits plunged into this melee, rifle butts and pistols serving very nicely to sort it out. A couple of the enraged passengers got a rifle butt to get them out of the line of fire, but most of them were willing to stand aside to let the pros go to work.
Bolan’s group met up with Greene at the bow of the ship after their twin sweeps. Behind them, the decks were littered with more than a dozen bodies, most of them were terrorists. Every time the blacksuits had encountered a wounded passenger, they’d paused to administer combat first aid before moving on.
“There might be a few more still hiding belowdecks,” Bolan told the Stony Man security chief, “but we need to secure the upper levels so we can get the medics in here.”
“We can handle that.” Greene signaled for his squad leaders to assemble.
“And,” Bolan said, “while you’re taking care of that, I’ll hit the lower decks.”
“Need a backup?”
“Thanks, but it’ll be better if you stay up here and deal with the Feds for me. Tell them that I’m working down there and be on the lookout for me. I would, though, like to borrow a com link from one of your men.”
Greene turned to the closest blacksuit. “Wilson, give me your radio.”
“You got it, Chief.”
Bolan fitted the com link to his harness and ran a com check.
“I’ll be in touch.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Evacuating the ex-hostages from the Carib Princess was going as quickly as could be expected with the ship in midchannel. An aid station had been set up on deck to handle the casualties, and the medics were bringing the wounded out and triaging them before moving them to the rescue boats.
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