Plus, there was always a market for sex slaves, both male and female, Bolan noted dourly.
After checking over his weapons he headed down the accessway. Bolan passed a man struggling to pull himself along the hall. He had a coffee soaked T-shirt wrapped around his mouth. Smart. But as Bolan quickly approached, the man dropped, totally unconscious.
Knowing a mask would not help the fellow now, Bolan moved on. There was only one location where a gas bomb or generator could feed outward to the entire ship. The main intake vent at the front.
Bolan moved quickly through the cloudy passageways, trying not to trip over the Ghost Jaguars’ unconscious bodies. His hopes of defending the ship were rapidly dwindling. It was starting to appear as if the gas attack had caught most, if not all, of the rebels.
Reaching the room, Bolan yanked open the door and a thick cloud of smoke rolled out. Temporarily blinded, he backed away until he reached the wall. The external vent was closed tight. But a small machine was bolted to the deck table, the gasoline engine sputtering away and a thick column of fumes pouring out of the vent and heading straight into the primary airway.
Bolan turned off the machine then put a steel-jacketed round from the BAR through the engine to make sure it couldn’t be reactivated. As the booming report echoed down the steel corridors, a pair of figures appeared in the doorway. They were both wearing insulated parkas and rebreathers. Each held a silenced automatic pistol.
The sight of them cut deep into Bolan. Son of a bitch! Narmada must have smuggled people on board during the recent delivery of frozen meat. Attacked from within and without. Damn, the man was good.
As the two pirates swung their weapons toward him, Bolan stroked the trigger of his Beretta and sent a man flying backward, blood spraying across the steel walls. The woman shot back several times, the small-caliber rounds ripping holes in Bolan’s thick Navy coat and flattening on the NATO body armor underneath. Bolan returned the favor, and the shooter joined her partner in the abyss.
Doing a fast sweep of the kitchen, Bolan checked for any more sleeper agents. He found several huge wooden boxes of meat in the main freezer and decided to play it safe, riddling all of them with 9 mm Parabellum rounds from the Beretta. Splinters and hamburger sprayed everywhere, but there came no cries of shock or pain. Good enough. Time to leave.
Charging down the central passageway, Bolan opened door after door until he found Major Cortez. She was slumped over a table, her face smeared with soup. Slinging the woman over a shoulder, Bolan had a brief internal debate, then tossed aside the heavy BAR and drew the Beretta. Speed was more important than firepower at the moment.
Back in the stairwell, Bolan was startled to discover several more rebels staggering along. They moved clumsily, but they were armed and wearing French-style gas masks from another era.
“Pirates?” asked Lieutenant Esteele.
“They’re here,” Bolan replied curtly. “And more coming. We have to abandon ship.”
“Never!”
“Then die,” Bolan said.
The lieutenant paused for a moment, then gave a curt nod and started up the metal stairs.
Reaching the main deck, Bolan was not surprised to now see several vessels in the water around the Constitution. Powerful arc lights were sweeping the deck, and he could hear the sporadic crackle of small-arms fire.
Hit twice, Bolan pretended to stagger, then emptied the Beretta directly into a search light. He was rewarded with a loud shattering of glass, closely followed by a wide swathe of darkness.
Distant voices shouted garbled commands, but Bolan charged into the blackness and jumped over the gunwale. He hit the water hard, losing direction and sinking fast under Major Cortez’s dead weight.
Reorienting himself according to the air bubbles around him, Bolan kicked furiously. A moment later, his head broke the surface, and he yanked off the gas mask to draw in some much-needed air.
A quick check showed the major was still alive, and now Bolan swam further from the Constitution and its new owners, hoping to find the lifeboat he had set free before. Almost immediately there came the sound of a prolonged firefight from the vessel, and Bolan saw Lieutenant Esteele and his people wildly spraying their new AK-101 assault rifles at the pirates. The 5.56 mm rounds did not harm the protective glass covers of the big search lights, but the 30 mm grenades smashed the lights into shards, and soon the only illumination came from the muzzle flashes of the deadly weapons.
“Surrender and live!” a voice boomed over a loud speaker. “All we want is your cargo!”
Swimming with one arm, Bolan hoped the rebels would soon recognize the hopelessness of their position and jump overboard. If they stuck with him, they stood a small chance of coming out of this fiasco alive. But separately...
One of the fake lifeboats flipped over, and now the stuttering flash of the quad-style Remington .50 machine gun roared into operation. The stream of heavy bullets chewed a noisy path of destruction across a trawler. A man screamed, a window shattered. Then there came a telltale double flash, and Bolan saw a firebird of some kind streak across the main deck. The rocket hit the machine gun and the blast overwhelmed the night, throwing bodies and wreckage far and wide.
“Boarding parties! Kill them all!” the voice boomed over the loudspeaker.
Bolan turned away from the battle and tried to concentrate on finding the lifeboat. The rebels were brave and heavily armed but they’d been unexpectedly outnumbered—and outmatched. This fight was over. Survival was all that mattered now. But Bolan was more determined than ever to end Narmada’s reign.
Just then, Bolan heard the soft clunk of wood hitting wood and kicked in that direction. Finally, he caught the dim outline of the lifeboat bobbing in the low swells.
It was a strain, but Bolan managed to heave the unconscious major into the craft, then crawl in himself. Taking a moment to catch his breath, Bolan eased himself carefully above the gunwale. Several fires were raging on the Constitution, the flickering light showing the murky outline of six Russian fishing trawlers. Their decks were packed with men and women carrying Neostead shotguns. The pirates were laughing as they blasted the weapons again and again. Bolan saw a rebel get hit by several of the pirates’ weapons as he was trying to reload his AK-101. Oddly, there was no blood, but his arms went slack and the man cursed bitterly and dropped his assault rifle.
Bolan scowled. Stun bags. So the bastards did want the crew alive.
As if suddenly understanding this, the rebel dove off the deck, disappearing into the darkness.
Suddenly, a giant man stepped into view on one of the trawlers, sending a long discharge from a Neostead into the water. Narmada!
“No survivors!” Narmada shouted, running a thumb across his throat.
Pulling out his Beretta, Bolan centered on the giant man, but his own exhaustion, combined with the rolling waves, made a definite kill almost impossible. Reluctantly, Bolan holstered the weapon. He’d get another chance.
A flash burst from one of the trawlers, and a fiery something charged directly toward the lifeboat. Bolan threw himself over the gunwale, knifing deep into the cold sea.
He swam straight down, trying to get as far away from the explosion as possible. Something large moved to the side as darkness took over. Fear danced in the back of his mind, but Bolan stayed the course, striving to go ever deeper. Inches could mark the difference between life and death.
The shockwave hit Bolan hard, almost driving the air from his lungs. Then shrapnel hissed by, trailing tiny bubbles, and Bolan was hit several times, his Navy coat ripping away, spinning him around until he had no sense of direction.
Rapidly running out of oxygen, Bolan removed what remained of his Navy peacoat and, then the body armor, leaving only the lightweight ballistic T-shirt.
As the clothing sank, something large moved below him, al
most brushing his kicking legs.
Bolan did not care if it was a tuna, swordfish or a shark. He pushed hard for the surface, gulping in the salty air, and did nothing for several minutes but ride the waves and recharge his depleted body.
As his aching lungs came back under control, he shook the excess water from his face and looked around for the lifeboat. It was intact and moving away from the blast zone at a fair clip.
Hoisting himself over the gunwale, Bolan lay low on the bottom of the craft, hoping it would not draw the pirates’ attention again. Narmada’s crews could easily blow the lifeboat out of the water, and right now his and Major Cortez’s only chance at staying alive was to let the currents move them away from the choppy wake of the armored ore freighter. He had smashed the controls for the Constitution, and it was still chugging along at full speed.
Time was both his enemy and his best protection. Along with the mist. If they stayed on his side, Bolan would live to fight another day. If not...Bolan checked both of his weapons.
Time passed. The gunfire faded into the distance. Eventually, there was only the gentle patter of the falling mist as it started to change into a cool, refreshing rain.
Chapter 5
Atlantic Ocean
As always, dawn erupted across the ocean in a surge of golden light.
Warily rising above the gunwale of the lifeboat, Bolan looked around for the Constitution. It, and the trawlers, were nowhere to seen.
Suddenly, a pale hand came over the edge of the boat and grabbed his sleeve. Turning quickly, Bolan reached down into the chop and helped the floundering rebel into the lifeboat.
“Thanks,” gasped Lieutenant Esteele, water flowing from his slack lips. “Wasn’t s-sure...gonna...” Then he fainted.
Bolan noticed another rebel disappearing beneath the waves. Without hesitation, he dove out of the boat. The sea water stung his eyes, but he forced them to stay open. Visibility was poor after only a few meters, but he spotted the man sinking quickly into the depths.
Reluctantly, Bolan returned to the surface. No air bubbles escaped the rebel’s mouth, and the gaping wound in his head had been trickling out pinkish fluid. Blood would have been red. Pink meant it was brain matter, and that meant the man was long dead.
Bolan shook the water from his face and glanced around. The ocean was calm after the rain, and he could easily see a flotilla of assorted bodies in every direction. Narmada had cleaned house on the Constitution. Still, the rebels had managed to take along a few of the pirates. Not many, but some.
As Bolan pulled himself back into the boat, he saw a shark fin cut past. He quickly drew his Beretta. Men still floundered in the water.
Bolan could come up with no better solution than the gun in his hand and calmly started firing as he spotted more fins. As the dead shark began to sink, the others drew away from the living swimmers and darted toward the banquet of raw flesh,
Bolan kept the sharks at bay until the last three members of the Ghost Jaguars dragged themselves on board. After a brief nod of thanks, each passed out. Fair enough. Then Bolan spotted a man in the water wearing jeans and sneakers.
Stretching out as far as he could, Bolan just managed to grab the pirate’s sleeve and haul him closer. The corpse was heavy, the clothes soaked with sea water. Bolan had to strain to get him into the boat without swamping it.
Major Cortez was sitting at the front of the craft, watching Bolan closely. “Smart,” she croaked, then broke into a ragged cough.
Bolan began to go through the dead man’s clothing. He retrieved a Glock 9 mm handgun and two spare clips, a decent knife, wallet, keys...but not to a car. Arms locker? Something on one of the trawlers. Bolan pocketed the keys. Hopefully nobody would consider changing the lock on...well...whatever these were for.
The pirate’s cell phone was dead at the moment, but Bolan knew several tricks to bring a waterlogged phone back to life. Rice was the key. The man’s watch was the only thing of real interest. It had settings for several time zones, but the main setting was several hours behind the local time. Italy, maybe, Bolan noted. Or possibly Sardinia. Interesting.
“Fucking bastard,” growled Lieutenant Esteele, struggling to rise. “Toss the piece of sheet overboard, and let the damn sharks choke on him!”
Bolan agreed—the lifeboat was cramped enough as it was. Then he spotted something under the man’s grimy shirt. Dog tags? Ripping open the shirt, Bolan allowed himself a small smile at the sight of a very modern biometric identification card. Sealed in plastic, the brief submersion in the ocean would not have harmed the magnetic strip or the computer code. This was a real key. But to what?
Bolan removed the card and draped the lanyard over his own head, then heaved the corpse back into the waves. Done and done.
“Still going after them, eh?” chuckled one of the rebels, levering himself up on an elbow.
Shrugging in reply, Bolan stumbled to the rear of the small craft and removed a battered tarpaulin to check the outboard. The motor was intact but not the fuel tank. That had taken some shrapnel, and gas was trickling out of several tiny holes at a steady pace.
“Anybody got some chewing gum?” Bolan asked hopefully. “Toothpicks? Ear plugs?”
When the replies were all negative, Bolan drew the Beretta and ejected a round. But the 9 mm cartridge was way too big to act as a plug for any of the tiny punctures. “Anybody carrying a. 22?”
“For what?” a rebel laughed. “Mice?”
Fair enough. “Where’s the medical kit?”
“Bandages dissolve in gasoline,” said Major Cortez as she passed over a small roll of duct tape. “Try this, instead.”
Bolan carefully cleaned the area around the cluster of holes and applied the tape. The steady rocking of the craft did not help matters, as sea water kept splashing upward, but Bolan eventually got the tank dry enough to risk an attempt. The first layer of tape didn’t want to stick, nor did the second. But the third stayed.
“Think that will hold?” asked Lieutenant Esteele with a worried expression.
“Long enough,” Bolan replied, casting away the empty cardboard tube.
“How much gas is left?”
The indicator on top was shattered, so Bolan gave the fuel tank a thump with a fist. “Sounds like half a tank. Maybe less.”
“Not much.”
“Then let’s start moving.” Major Cortez forced herself into a sitting position. With a scowl, she scanned the empty horizon. “The further we get from those murdering lunatics, the better!”
“Not yet,” Bolan said, forcing her back down. “Alive we’re a threat. Dead, we’re shark food, gone and forgotten,”
“Do you really think they can hear this tiny motor over those massive diesel engines?”
“No, but maybe they have decent radar.”
She clearly did not like the idea and rested a hand on the gun belt around her waist. Her fingers found the holster empty. There followed a long string of Spanish vulgarity.
“Your guns?” a rebel asked hopefully.
“Empty,” replied Bolan, splaying both hands. “I used my last round to distract the sharks.”
The major glanced at the reddish water around the craft. The sharks were still circling. “So...if the pirates return?”
“Dive overboard and head for Miami,” snapped Lieutenant Esteele, then he burst into a weary grin. “If you make it to shore, the first round is on me!”
Everybody smiled at the nonsense, even Bolan. Humor in battle was often the only thing that kept the wounded and the hopeless still moving. Still alive. Then again...
Bolan opened a small, watertight box in the middle of the craft and pulled out the mandatory survival pack. The seals broke easily, and he extracted numerous U.S. Army MRE food packets, a water distillation unit, saline tablets, a medical kit, a
compass, plastic mirrors to flash signals, more duct tape and, of course, an entire pack of chewing gum. Bolan tucked the compass and the chewing gum into a pocket for later. The box also contained a satellite phone and solar panels, which would come in handy once they were sure the pirates had left them for dead.
Then Bolan withdrew a flare gun. If Narmada launched a heat-seeker, it could be countered by the white-hot magnesium charge in the flare. The timing would be tricky, but it was possible.
“And if that fat pendejo launches a LAW rocket?” asked a rebel. “Instead of a heat-seeker?”
“Then it’s been nice knowing you,” Bolan replied and passed over the gun.
The rebel blinked at the act. “Any spare?”
“Three. So don’t miss.”
Nodding grimly, the rebel sat up a little straighter and squinted into the distance.
The major nodded at Bolan in approval. Bolan shrugged. Busy hands made the time go fast, and at the moment, time was about all these people had.
“Okay, repairs are next,” said Bolan. “Anybody bleeding, any broken bones? Gun shots?”
“Knife in the leg,” a woman grunted, patting the area. She’d tied a dirty handkerchief around the wound as a tourniquet.
“Stab yourself?” Bolan asked, inspecting the dressing. It was a good job, so he left it alone for the moment.
She grinned, displaying a gold tooth. “A pirate was trying to remove my pants. I decided that he was not pretty enough for my favors, so I slit his throat.”
“Good. How about you, Miguel?”
“Ribs, just bruised. I can row.”
Kneeling down, Bolan tenderly probed the mottled flesh. The man winced but said nothing.
“They’re broken,” Bolan said, reaching into the survival kit and extracting the last roll of duct tape. “You rest tonight, and row tomorrow.”
“But...”
“We’ll need fresh muscle then,” said Major Cortez. “Heal fast, amigo.”
“Yes, Major.”
“Now hold still,” said Bolan. “This will hurt.”
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