* * *
VLADIMIR HEARD THE security chief yell out to him, but ignored his words. He looked along the length of the yacht and noted the number and positions of the security men who were ranged along it. They were spaced evenly, and if his men were as accurate as their training suggested, this would be a simple task.
He barked orders at his men as they lined up, and from the corner of his eye noted the security chief’s expression change as he recognized the language as Russian rather than Arabic. They were close enough for that, and he had little doubt that the chief noted his own wolfish smile.
But there was little time for such thoughts. His men, who had assumed a file like any military party, spread along the deck and racked their weapons, opening fire on the yacht before the security had a chance to react. Perhaps it would have been better to get aboard before the firefight began, but Vladimir figured that his appearance would blow that out at any closer range.
Even as this crossed his mind, he had leveled the M4 carbine that he favored, chopping out a short burst of 5.56 mm slugs that took out the security chief before he had a chance to return fire. The man had been distracted by his earpiece, and it had cost him—the precise reason why Vladimir avoided using such devices. Eliminating distractions kept you alive. As if to prove this, he skipped aside to avoid a burst of SMG fire that chewed the deck of the gunboat. It had come from the bridge of the yacht, and Valdimir made a mental note—the man firing would pay, if there was the opportunity.
Already, the gunboat was close enough to send across hooks and secure the two boats. The gap between them could be cleared with no problem and Vladimir took the lead, laying down covering fire as those security men who had not already been neutralized fell back to try and take cover. He fired a burst at the bridge, but there was no return; he guessed that whoever was up there had gone, possibly to secure the target.
The yacht was not built for paramilitary purposes—it was a leisure vessel primarily, and so was proving useless to the security forced back by the onslaught. Those who Valdimir’s team had not eradicated had been forced to retreat below deck.
With a few yelled commands, Vladimir directed his men to scour the deck and bridge, securing the territory. Within a few moments, this had been achieved.
“How many exits?” he asked of his team.
“Three,” the reply came. “One from bridge, two from deck. Bridge has been battened down. Two ways left in...or out.”
Valdimir’s face creased into a crooked grin. “Okay. Mask up, send down the CS. They make it too easy. Amateurs.” He spat on the deck to emphasize his point before slipping on a gas mask, his men following suit. With pointing finger, he directed two men, to each lay down covering fire and lob a CS grenade into the interior of the yacht.
Chances were that these idiots did not have masks of their own. How they could have lucked into such a piece of property and hoped to bring off its sale was beyond him. They did not deserve such luck if they did not know how to take proper advantage. Still, they might surprise him and be in at least some manner prepared.
Thus it was that he counted off twenty seconds for the grenades’ gas to start to spread before sending his men down in the formation specified before embarkation. He sent three men down one hatch and followed the other two down the one aft of the vessel. As the hatches sprang open, a mist of CS gas wafted up on to the deck.
As he descended the ladder leading below decks, the air from above caused the gas to dissipate quickly. Two three-shot bursts from the man at the front of the assault drew his attention to two of the security guards. Both had been disabled by the gas, with no masks, but had still attempted through streaming eyes and aching lungs to fire at the approaching party. Too slow. A tap from the lead man had taken each out in turn with a head shot.
Through the length of the boat Vladimir could hear yells and short bursts of fire, interspersed with longer bursts and the odd single shot. The latter two told him that some of the security either had masks or were made resilient through fear and adrenaline—his men would not waste ammunition on long bursts, nor risk a single shot.
But that was not his problem. For the moment, his job was to clear the below-deck areas and secure the targets. Obstacles were to be expected.
There were three doorways along the first corridor: two were open, and one was closed. Laying down cover, his men searched the open rooms. A tap through the lock of the third and the same procedure assured that this, too, was empty.
The gas was starting to clear, and as they progressed down a level it became obvious that the party entering from the fore hatch had made quick progress, as the dead bodies attested. It was only a few minutes before both parties linked up on the second level. Here, it was obvious that the last remaining security were making a stand as they held the assault party at bay.
Coming upon his men, Vladimir could tell at a glance that the remaining security were in one room. Sitting targets in one sense, but holding the ace nonetheless. Through his mask, he yelled at his men. “Pull back—they are expendable, but the targets must not be harmed.”
His assault party included hired hands, local militia and guerrillas in search of funds, but they were well disciplined. They pulled back as far as possible.
Vladimir considered his options. The men inside must have masks, or had at least escaped the worst of the effects of the CS. He could not waste time in getting them out, and yet could not risk his targets being hit in any crossfire.
He reached across and tapped a grenade that one of his men carried on his belt. The man picked it off, looked at it and smiled behind his mask. He nodded and made to toss it across the divide and into the room where the targets were being held. As he did so, Vladimir indicated to his men to turn away and cover their ears.
It was unnecessary; they were already cognizant of his intention, and he joined them in facing away, covering his ears and closing his eyes while opening his mouth to create a hollow that would allow the concussion to pass without damage.
Even with their backs to the blast, they could see as well as feel and hear the concussion grenade, the flash lighting up the insides of their eyelids. In a couple of seconds it passed through them in the enclosed space.
Wasting no more time, Vladimir led his party into the room. There were three security men—identifiable by their similar clothing—lying disabled on the carpet and across the remnants of the long table, shattered by the blast. Each was taken out by a short tap from one of Valdimir’s men.
At the end of the room, prone under a screen that had been ripped from the wall by the blast, were two armed men, and two unarmed men. The two unarmed men Vladimir could identify by sight as being the targets.
The two armed men—an Eastern European and an Indian—lay dazed and paralyzed by the effects of the blast.
So, the Russian thought, these are the amateurs who wanted to play with the big boys. It had been an ambitious, if stupid, effort on their part. He stepped across to them and lined up his M4 with the Indian’s head. One short burst and the man was eliminated. He turned to the Eastern European and hesitated for a fraction of a second. The man, dazed and incapable as he was, tried to lift the SMG he held in his left hand, his eyes attempting to focus. Vladimir saluted his courage silently, but with one shot ended his resistance. Perhaps in another time and place, things would have been different.
Now there was business to attend to. He yelled through the mask and indicated to his men to take the remaining pair. Two to a man, they lifted them and carried them at the double as Vladimir took point with the remaining assault soldier covering their backs.
They took them up on deck and across to the gunboat; Vladimir ripped off his mask as he went. He could see Piotr on the bridge. He could also hear the approach of two motor vessels, at speed. He looked across and saw them coming from the open sea. Wondering who the hell they might be, but unwi
lling to take any chances, he ushered his men and their cargo across onto the gunboat, joining the crew in casting off and away from the yacht.
The engines of the gunboat came to life and it began to drift in the current, moving farther from the yacht and pointing toward the open sea.
With the approaching powerboats directly in its path.
Chapter 7
“It’s not going to get out of our way, and it’s far better armed,” Bolan yelled above the roaring whine of the engines and the crash of water against the hulls of the two powerboats as they came into alignment, running parallel as they entered the harbor and headed toward the yacht. Wisps of what could have been smoke or gas floated from the interior, and there was no sign of life since the raiding party had returned to the gunboat.
“Let them come.” Hassim grinned. “They might have bigger guns, but we can move faster and split into two directions. Let them try and do that,” he exclaimed triumphantly.
Bolan was less impressed with this notion than the leader of the men he had hired. It didn’t matter if the two powerboats parted to draw fire to one while the other mounted an attack—he could see that they would possibly be outnumbered in terms of manpower, and could certainly be outgunned. The large cannon and machine gun that comprised the gunboat’s firepower would chop them into pieces, and could certainly lay down enough covering fire to prevent their being able to do damage.
“We need to pull back, see where they head,” Bolan stated.
Hassim looked at him as though he were insane. “You’re scared, Cooper? Surely not?”
“It’s not about that. We can’t match their firepower and it would be simple for them to pick us off one at a time. Better to circle and pursue, try to get them off the boat and on to neutral ground.”
The mercenary leader made as if to reply, but events prevented his words of wisdom from being heard. Bucking over the tide of the harbor and the conflicting currents of the wash the two powerboats were effecting on each other, the boats were now within firing range of the gunboat as it turned and began to head toward the mouth of the harbor.
It was slower and more cumbersome than the other craft, but had brute strength to compensate. As the powerboats closed, the gunboat swung in one direction and its armaments swung around so that they were facing the oncoming powerboats. The waters were chopped up by spray as tracer shells from the machine gun spat into the waves, finding range.
Standing, Bolan swung an arm in the direction of the other boat, indicating a wide arc—he could only hope that the wordless order would be understood. The boat in which he stood took evasive action, swinging to proscribe its own wide arc around the path of the oncoming gunboat. The machine gun followed their path rather than that of the other powerboat, and Bolan ducked along with the rest of those aboard as fire from the gunboat shattered the windshield of the powerboat, showering them with glass and water as the waves swept in without opposition. It made it almost impossible for the pilot to see where the powerboat was headed and for Bolan to form any clear impression of where they were headed. The boat bucked and weaved in the waters as the pilot fought for control.
With that boat temporarily out of action, the gunboat swung its armaments around so that fire could be focused on the other boat.
Leaving them and not finishing the job was an error. As the pilot wrestled his vessel back into some semblance of a course, Bolan barked at the men in the back of the boat to pass the RPG-7 that they had with them. Moving with the motion of the boat as best he could, thigh and calf muscles straining to keep him upright and balanced, he racked and loaded the launcher, balancing it so that he could sight the gunboat as his own vessel moved erratically in the waters. He loosed a load at the gunboat, the recoil making him stumble backward so that it was hard to see if the shot had any positive effect. Then, even over the whine of the protesting engine and the rumble of the waters, the explosion of the grenade was audible.
“Got the bastard,” Hassim yelled, clapping Bolan on the shoulder as the soldier adjusted in order to get a clearer view.
A cry of victory, but a hollow one, as smoke and some fire on deck showed that the grenade had hit home, but the armor-plated deck was too solid and thick to really be damaged. It was superficial, but enough to distract the attention of the gunboat crew from the other boat. As the relatively slow and clumsy gunboat began to turn in the water, Bolan could see the other powerboat careening off across the harbor, the pilot seemingly struggling for control.
“Hardly scratched him, and now he’s coming for us,” Bolan snapped. “The other boat is out of their range, I suggest we do likewise.”
“They will follow, and eventually they will catch us. We should stand and fight now,” one of the men behind him yelled.
“They don’t want to stay and fight, they just want us to leave them alone while they go,” Bolan returned. “We can continue this when we have a chance to even the odds. Now get this toward port side, quick,” he barked.
The pilot gunned his engine and took the vehicle around the still and silent yacht. Bolan could see that the other powerboat was doing the same. The gunboat fired a desultory blast at them, more to keep them on the run than with any hope of hitting them as they moved out of range.
As he had suspected—and hoped—the gunboat circled in the waters of the harbor, swinging around so that it faced toward the mouth of the harbor once more before gunning its engines to drive it out to sea at as great a speed as it could muster.
Bolan indicated to the pilot to take his vessel in alongside the yacht, trusting that the other powerboat, which seemed now to have come under control once more, would follow suit.
“Why are we looking there?” Hassim asked. “The quarry is long gone now.” He pointed to where the gunboat was now exiting the harbor.
“We’re looking for anything that might be useful—like anyone left still breathing,” Bolan replied. “We need any intel we can gather.”
* * *
DISORIENTED AND DISABLED as they may have been when they were dragged aboard, scientists Gabriel and Hoeness had soon recovered enough to be aware of what was happening to them. As the explosion of the grenade rocked the gunboat, and the chattering roar and booming of its own fire echoed below deck, they passed through fear, apprehension, and then anger and indignation. They were still feeling this as the firing died down, and the rocking of the boat as it bucked the waves set their stomachs churning.
Unsteadily, the younger scientist got to his feet and stumbled across the cabin in which they had been confined, trying the door and finding it secured. He shook his head at his companion and returned to his bunk, where he flopped down heavily.
Exhausted by their recent ordeal, both men lay silent for some time, stirring only when the door to their cabin was unceremoniously thrown open and two armed men in Syrian uniforms stepped through, holding MP5s with which they covered the two scientists. Hoeness raised a weak grin; their assumption that either man may offer some resistance was absurd.
A third man stepped through the door. Tall, scarred and with an icy demeanor, his height and pale skin belied the uniform that he, too, wore.
“Gentlemen, I trust that you are unharmed,” he said shortly.
“Apart from filling our lungs with gas and shooting at us, you mean?” Gabriel wheezed.
“Regrettable that you were involved, but also unavoidable—your previous owners were unwilling to give you up cheaply.”
“Owners? You speak of us as though we are slaves.”
The tall man shrugged. “Slaves. Merchandise. Saleable properties. It is all the same thing.”
“Do you know who we actually are?” Gabriel’s tone suggested that he was genuinely puzzled. “We are scientists. We were to meet representatives of many governments who were to bid for the rights to our research in return for funding further experiments. I fail to
see what that has to do with the militia of the country in which the meeting is taking place,” he added, indicating the uniform of those before him.
“It may have been relevant if one of the nations bidding at auction was Syria—which as far as I am aware was not the case—and indeed if we were of that country’s military, which we are not. Gentlemen, I shall not prevaricate,” he continued with the precise tones of one who is not speaking their native language. “You have been taken by a cartel that can see a great profit in selling your knowledge to the highest bidder. Of course, in order to do this, and to ensure completion of the research, then selling your knowledge entails selling your good selves.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” Hoeness stammered, the crunching fear in his gut telling him that it was far from that.
The tall Russian seemed genuinely surprised by this. “But of course it does. That much must be evident. What do you think that the men we took you from were planning to do?” There was a moment’s silence, and then the Russian continued. “Whatever you may have thought, there is no difference between what will happen to you now, and what would have happened if you had remained on the yacht. Perhaps, then, one difference—at least now you have been told honestly of your fate. Gentlemen, make yourselves comfortable. We will arrive at our destination soon, and you will then be informed of the next stage of this operation. You are not stupid men, so I feel I should not have to remind you, but...” He indicated the two men flanking the door, MP5s still leveled. “I suggest you resign yourselves to your fate and think about the personal terms you may be able to push for as part of a sale.”
“You talk as though this were an ordinary business transaction,” Gabriel spat.
A thin smile split the Russian’s face. “All business comes down to the same. The people I work for have merely removed the false veneer of respectability.”
Ushering out his guards and locking the cabin door behind him, he left the two scientists to ponder their fate.
Cold Fusion Page 7