A stunned silence filled the control room, closely followed by blaring alarms and flashing red lights.
“What is going on out there?” the captain demanded.
“Unknown sir,” a young female ensign replied briskly, her face tight with concern. “There’s nothing on the radar, and we’re moving way too fast for anything alive to be attacking us.”
“Are we?” snapped the captain suspiciously.
“Absolutely, sir,” a much older lieutenant confirmed.
“Well, get those men below decks!” the captain ordered, grabbing a hand microphone from an overhead stanchion. “Abort the mission! All hands below decks! Repeat, all hands below decks!”
“Navigator! Full about! Head into the wind!” added the second officer. “Full speed! This must be some sort of biological attack.”
“Confirm,” the captain continued. “I want this ship airtight in five minutes. Seal all doors. And—”
Just then the side windows pitted violently, as if the ship had unexpectedly entered a sandstorm. The thick Plexiglas quickly turned opaque, began to crack then loudly shattered. Chunks and shards blew across the control room, hitting the startled crew and bouncing off all of the equipment and controls. Several people fell, blood on their faces, and the radar screen was smashed.
“Mother of God, what is this?” bellowed the captain, one arm thrown protectively across his face, the other grasping for the Beretta 9 mm automatic on his hip.
Just then the radio speaker crackled.
“Leave these waters, and do not return!” growled Captain Narmada. “Sazan Island belongs to me.”
“The hell it does!” the captain snarled, spinning on the radio. “Whatever this is, pig, we—”
With a crack, the riddled radio mast snapped off the speeding ship into the sea. The entire vessel rocked from the shift in balance, sending several sailors overboard.
“Fire the cannon!” yelled the captain. “Shoot back!”
“At what, sir?” a confused ensign asked. Half of his face was swollen with welts, his sunglasses cracked, his hair matted with welling blood.
“Anything! Everything! Just shoot the damn island!”
Seconds later, the 76 mm cannon erupted into action, spraying a steady stream of high-explosive death toward the dwindling island.
As bushes and moss were blown away, several old Soviet bunkers were revealed. But the shells merely exploded harmlessly on the outside of the thick ferroconcrete walls and had no effect on whatever was chewing apart the Italian military vessel.
“Abort the mission! Return to base!” the captain ordered.
A few moments later, the invisible attack from the island stopped, but it was already too late. Most of the crew was unconsciousness, and the controls were locked. With nobody at the helm anymore, the Orincia raced directly back toward port.
The Orincia rammed onto the beach, plowing up a tidal wave of sand and shells. The vessel shuddered, and every loose item on the deck was thrown off the sides. Men screamed as they fell to the beach and rolled along helplessly.
The Orincia buckled hard, the last few windows shattering. The cannon ripped free from the deck, and live shells scattered everywhere. As they started to explode, the few civilians on the beach yelled in panic and ran for their lives as the unstoppable Italian warship continued on its path of destruction.
Police vehicles, fire engines and ambulances raced to the scene. But there was little the rescue crews could do but keep their distance as the 76 mm shells continued to explode, throwing out a thick corona of shrapnel.
Less than an hour later, two heavily armed Apache gunships left Gioia del Colle Air Base and headed directly for the island. As they approached, their windshields began to pit, the blades were thrown horribly off-balance and the engines began to leak.
With great reluctance, the pilots returned to base, and no further attempts were made to approach the pirates’ base.
Sazan Island
BOLAN CREPT THROUGH the old Soviet airshaft, following the sound of crying. Crying, female, middle-aged, in real pain. Maybe it was an injured pirate. Unlikely, but possible. A much more reasonable explanation was a prisoner, which meant a potential source of information and possibly an ally.
The noise was low and irregular, mixing with all the other sounds echoing from the underground base—flushing toilets, footsteps, conversations, coughs, the buzz of electrical equipment, pressure valves thumping. Doors opened and closed, metal squeaked, and all of it was cover for his covert movements through the airshaft.
Several times he lost the crying completely, but he backtracked until he heard it again, then used his knife to mark his path.
If discovered, Bolan knew he’d be in a terrible position and would have no choice but to simply try to blitz his way back to the surface. He would try for the mountains. Take the high ground, and let Narmada come after him.
The crying was very close now. Taking a corner, he suddenly smelled sour sweat, oddly mixed with...roses? Yes, this was the place. Using a tiny container of spray lubricant, Bolan wet down the rusty hinges of the old access plate, then waited a few minutes for the penetrating oil to get in deep.
Finally, Bolan opened the hatch and looked down into the most comfortable cell he had ever seen. It contained a four-poster bed with a duvet, several cushioned chairs, framed Chinese prints on the walls, a bookcase full of magazines and even a TV and DVD player. A woman lay angled across the bed, her fingers clenched tight on the patchwork quilt, shuddering as if electricity were coursing through her body. The air reeked of sweat, and Bolan made an educated guess that the woman was detoxing from drugs.
Easing out of the airshaft, Bolan lowered himself onto a wooden table covered with plastic dishes and cups, some still full of untouched food. Lost in her private world of pain, the woman did not seem to notice his arrival, so Bolan used a chair to step down to the floor and immediately checked the door. It was strong and thick, six hinges, bolted from the outside. That was enough for him. She was a prisoner.
Bolan sat down next to the woman and took her wrist. Her pulse was erratic, and she only fluttered her eyelids at his touch.
“I’m here to help,” Bolan said as softly as possible.
English got no response. So Bolan tried again in Italian. This time she slowly opened her eyes. She seemed to have some trouble focusing on the man, so he moved a little closer.
“Dream...” she sighed in a heavily accented Italian, the one word filled with sorrow. “Just a dream...”
Bolan pinched her hard.
She yelped and slapped at the spot. “You bastard!” she hissed, then paused, her entire face changing as comprehension hit. “You’re...really here? Did the snowman send you?” She said the words so fast they almost came out as one.
“What?” Bolan asked in confusion.
She scowled. “My grandfather! Did my grandfather send you to rescue me?”
“No, I’m just a friend,” Bolan replied, “Or rather, an enemy of the captain.” He spit on the floor.
That brought a hint of a smile to her haggard face, and then she also spit on the floor. “Captain Narmada,” she growled, baring her teeth. They were perfect, smooth and even, like a movie star’s.
Okay, she’s rich, Bolan noted. But then, the pirates would not waste an entire private cell for some poor fisherman’s daughter they planned to sell as a sex slave. This cell was designed for the comfort of the prisoner, not just to keep her in one place. She must be a hostage of some kind—a daughter of an Italian military commander or ambassador, or a billionaire’s niece.
“You are who?” she mumbled, struggling to sit up.
“Friend,” Bolan replied, gently taking her arm. She had needle track marks up her forearm, most of them fresh, but a few were very old. She was a habitual user, now being drugged by
her captors. As a form of torture, or just to keep her quiet? Actually, it worked either way.
With an annoyed expression, she shook back her arm and pulled the dirty sleeve down. “Do you know where we are?” she asked hopefully.
“Sazan Island, deep underground.”
“Impossible!” Her face tightened suspiciously.
“Fact. And keep your voice low, Miss...” Bolan waited.
“Svekta Dorvorka.”
“Colonel Brandon Stone, NATO Special Forces.”
“NATO...” She inhaled the word, then exhaled it even slower and finally allowed a smile to come and go. “Then...I am your prisoner now?” she asked hesitantly.
“Maybe later,” Bolan replied, pulling out his spare knife.
She flinched at the sight of the blade, then began breathing heavily as he placed it into her palm. Silently nodding her thanks, she tested the edge of the knife on a thumb, then flipped it expertly into the air and caught it by the tip of the blade, reversing it so that the flat spine of the knife now lay against her forearm.
“You know blades,” Bolan said, impressed.
“I live by the sea,” Svekta replied, swinging out her legs.
She flinched as her bare feet touched the cold stone floor. She tried to stand, but her knees gave out and she fell onto the bed once more.
“It has been too long without food...sleep,” Svekta said angrily. “They give me drugs every day...always sleepy....”
“That I can fix,” Bolan said, reaching for the small medical kit on his equipment belt. “But first, are there any other prisoners or hostages?”
“Only me,” she said coldly. “They have no other need for hostages as long as they have me.”
“Why? Italian royalty? Related to the Pope?”
“Wrong coast,” she replied mockingly. “I already told you, my name is Dorvorka.”
That gave Bolan pause. So she was Albanian....
Just then there came the sound of boots outside the door and the clatter of keys.
Moving fast, Bolan took a position behind the bookcase while Svekta tossed herself back on the bed and moaned dramatically.
A small panel in the door slid aside, and a face wearing a gruff expression looked into the cell. Then the panel closed and the door swung open. A large man entered carrying a surgical tray covered with a clean white cloth. “Shut up, ya tosser,” he growled, kicking the door shut with a boot heel. “It’s suppers.”
“Yes, please...” Svekta groaned, rolling over.
Staying motionless in the shadows, Bolan was surprised to see the woman had managed to unbutton her shirt, and one breast was now fully exposed.
The guard inhaled sharply. “Cor’ blimey.” He chuckled, setting down the tray on a dirty table. “I was wondering when you would come around.”
“Yes...please...” Svekta moaned. “Us...then supper...yes?”
“Why not?” He laughed, brushing back his oily hair. “Just let me—”
Stepping in fast, Bolan grabbed the guard by the gun hand and jaw and twisted back. Instantly, the guard rammed an elbow into Bolan, the blow driving him backward. But Bolan held on tight, unwilling to let the guard get out a cry for help. But the man clearly knew a lot about close-quarter fighting, and they rapidly exchanged silent blows, fists flashing back and forth with amazing speed. Bolan never let go of the guard’s throat. This man could tell him a lot about the defensives of the base, patrol times, access codes, the location of the armory.... Bolan needed him alive for questioning, which made the fight rather one-sided, as the guard merely wanted Bolan dead.
Rolling quickly across the dirty bed, Svekta rammed her knife deep into the guard’s chest. He went stiff from the pain, and redoubled his efforts to get free. Bolan worried the woman might try to remove the blade, releasing a hot torrent of blood, but she wisely left it in place.
As the guard started to sag, Svekta yanked the cloth off the surgical tray, grabbed the two syringes there, and buried both of them into his stomach. As the plungers descended, the guard started to twitch, and Bolan felt the man’s skin grow cold as his struggles became weaker and weaker. A few moments later, he slumped to the floor, jerked once and went still forever.
“That was not necessary,” Bolan stated, flexing his fingers.
“Yes, it was.” Svekta closed her blouse. She looked at the tray of drugs, a conflicted expression crossing her face. Two unopened ampoules of a murky amber fluid rested in a small plastic dish. Her eyes filled with hunger and longing, then she shook her head violently and turned away.
“Do you know what they were giving you?” Bolan asked, tapping the ampoules.
“No,” she replied, rubbing her arms. “But already I’m starting to itch...”
Damn, that sounded like heroin. “Okay, I have something that will make you feel better.... Not good, but better, for about an hour.” Opening his medical kit, Bolan pulled out a preloaded combat syringe.
“More drugs?” Svekta asked wearily.
“No, this is medicine,” Bolan said. “Something we give badly wounded soldiers to get them back on their feet and running for the medical helicopter.”
Her face brightened, and she extended an arm. “Excellent! Where is your machine?”
“Sorry, I swam here,” Bolan lied, easing in the needle and giving her a half-dose. “Can you swim?”
She blushed. “No, not well.”
“Then hide in the woods. When this wears off, take the other half. It’ll buy you a couple of hours,” said Bolan, then he reached into his equipment belt and extracted a candy bar. “Eat this between the shots. You’ll need sugar to stay alert.”
“After which?” Svekta asked with a worried expression.
“We had better be far away from this place.”
She paused. “You plan to destroy the base?”
“Near as I can.”
“How?”
“Still working on that part.”
He watched Svekta carefully for any side effects from the shot. Because Bolan was only a field medic and not a real doctor, if things went wrong, there was very little he could do to help aside from sound the alarm and hope the pirates still wanted her alive. But soon some color returned to her pale cheeks, and Svekta sat up straighter.
“Whew...as you said, Colonel—better,” she muttered, using a sleeve to wipe some drool off her chin. She stood, then walked with firm assurance to the dining table and began to strip the dead guard of his gun belt.
“Don’t shoot unless absolutely necessary,” warned Bolan.
Expertly, she dropped the magazine to check the rounds inside, then slapped it back into place and gave a curt nod. “Weapons like this and I are old friends,” she stated, holstering the piece.
“Good to know.”
So she knew guns and knives. This was no distant cousin of a rich politician....
“You’re part of the Fifteen,” Bolan was putting it all together. It was not a question.
She nodded.
That explained everything. As a member of the Fifteen Families, she was the perfect hostage. Just like the old Sicilian Mafia, the Fifteen went to extraordinary lengths to protect the members of their family, which actually was a real family, tied together with bonds of marriage and blood. Once again, Bolan’s estimation of Narmada increased. The man was ruthless but not a fool.
“Does that bother you?” Svekta asked, ripping off a sleeve.
“Not at the moment.”
“Good,” she said, using the strip to tie back her filthy mat of greasy hair. Her movements were becoming more controlled. Clearly, she was starting to feel better, which meant it was time to move.
“Colonel, I know how to fly a helicopter,” said Svekta, staring at the closed door. “If you can kill the guards, I can fly us away f
rom here.”
“And we would be shot down in flames in less than a minute,” Bolan countered. “The captain now has an arsenal of missiles, plus a new warship that’s bigger and more heavily armed than anything he’s had before.”
“This is not good news,” Svekta said, looking worried. “There is a fishing village on the far side of the island. Deserted, of course—the captain allows nobody on his land—but if I can find a boat...”
“Then head for Italy. Their jails are ten times nicer than the most luxurious coffin I’ve ever heard of.”
“Yes, I suppose,” Svekta said with a slight laugh. Then her face grew dark. “Kill him. Kill the captain, and my family will shower you with money.”
“Better get moving,” Bolan said. “Move fast, stay low and good luck.” She removed her shoes, tied them around her neck and stepped into Bolan’s cupped hands, hoisting herself onto the table. She grabbed the opening of the airshaft wiggled upward into it and was soon gone from sight.
Bolan watched her go with mixed feelings. If he was wrong about her—this situation—she would go straight to Narmada. She might have only been pretending to be a hostage. Perhaps she was actually his mistress and was being punished for some infraction. But his gut instincts said she was telling the truth. She was a member of the Fifteen Families.
Starting for the door, Bolan paused, some subtle instinct telling him something was wrong. His hands moved across the Ghillie suit, touching every weapon. His cell phone was missing.
Chapter 12
Durrës, Albania
The massive mansion was situated on top of a hill overlooking the rustic city. Every window glowed brightly, and twinkling fairy lights edged the long garden paths. Powerful search lights steadily swept the cloudy sky overhead—not on the patrol for enemy planes, but merely to demonstrate the power and excess of the ruling class, the infamous Fifteen Families.
High stone walls surrounded the mansion as if it was a castle from the Middle Ages. Guards armed with Type 56 assault rifles and equipped with body armor and night vision goggles walked along the walls, their Bluetooth ear buds and throat microphones keeping them in constant communication with Command & Control.
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