Armed Response

by Don Pendleton

  “We can have the bird come back and give you a lift.”

  Bolan thought for a moment. Hitching a ride on the helicopter would cut down his extraction time. On the other hand he felt a strange commitment to explain something to his bunk mate. And a night’s sleep would not be amiss.

  “No, I think I’ll stay and sneak off in the morning.”

  “Very good.” Linck turned to his companion, muttered a “Let’s go check the rest of the ship” and left Bolan with Abu. The captain grinned up at Bolan, rubbing his hands in glee.

  “Television! Abu now be famous. Very good for business. Maybe get bigger ship, you think?”

  “Yes,” Bolan agreed. “I think. Now I’m going to find our other passenger, see how she’s doing.”

  Bolan entered the superstructure and worked his way to their shared cabin. He banged on the door.

  “Who is it?” The woman’s voice came across forcefully.

  “It’s me.”

  “Go away.”

  “You can open the door now.”

  “Go. Away.”

  “Nancy, it’s safe. It’s all over. The Navy has fought off the pirates. You can come out now.”

  “I. Said. Go. Away!”

  Bolan was exasperated. “Look, I know you don’t like guns. I get that. But sometimes they’re necessary. I’ll find somewhere else to sleep, but I need my clothes.”

  The door suddenly swung open, no sound of it being unlocked. She stood there, glaring up at Bolan.

  “You are not really a journalist, are you?”

  Bolan was in the process of replacing the gun in the bag. He looked at her. “Yes, I really am a journalist. But I used to be Army. Before I got on the ship, I was asked to keep an eye out in case there was trouble. They passed me the weapon in Yemen. That’s all there is to it.”

  “So you knew that we would be attacked?”

  “Not really, no. There was a possibility. My editors thought I would make a great firsthand story if there was.”

  “I was watching, you know. I saw the helicopter being shot down. Are they all dead?”

  “No, they’re all alive. All flying back to base or to their ship. Only the pirates are dead.”

  “Did you shoot any of them?”

  “That’s not important.”

  “But did you? I think it is important. I want to know if I’m sharing a room with a nutcase.”

  “I’m not a nutcase. You’re perfectly safe. So where is this coming from? Why the dislike?”

  Clayton sat down slowly on her bunk and stared at her shoes, her anger and energy bleeding away. It took several attempts before she eventually said, “I told you. I told you, but you didn’t listen. God, you smell of gun smoke. Just like they did.”

  “I’m listening now.”

  A pause. Then, “I told you that some of the kids, they would sometimes bring guns to school. I was in the school yard, during the morning break, talking to a colleague, when they did it. Two eight-year-olds, their whole future in front of them, decided to play cowboys. Not twenty yards away from me, they stood there, like Clint Eastwood, John Wayne, and they shot each other. Both of them dead. A little boy died in my arms. As he lay there, he said that I couldn’t tell his daddy that he took the gun, that he was going to put it back. And he died.” She stopped with a deep sob, unable to go on. Bolan lowered himself next to her, made to put a comforting arm around her, but she pushed him away. “Go away,” she said, her voice breaking. “Just leave me for a while. I’ll be all right.”

  Bolan stood. “I’m sorry,” he said. He left her to fight her memories, heading toward the galley, where he could hear cheering as Abu promised the crew that their next ship would be a cruise liner and how they would all be stars on their own television show.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Northern Djibouti

  The stray camel stumbled on the rocky ground, falling to its front knees before struggling back upright. It was lost, dehydrated, exhausted. It was nearly at the end of its life. The animals were famous for their ability to store water on their long desert treks, but this one had depleted its reserves long ago. It staggered forward on its journey to nowhere, searching for water where none was to be found.

  The camel was closer to death than it realized.

  The sniper lay concealed one hundred yards away, his rifle aimed at the camel’s head. The rifle was old, a World War II French-made MAS 36 that had been issued to the French Foreign Legion shortly before their famous battle against Germany’s Afrika Korps at Bir Hakeim. Even before the war, it was out of date, the French military having achieved the distinction of introducing the last bolt-action rifle into the military arena when all other armies of the world were working on self-loading rifles. The bolt to reload the weapon was bent at an awkward angle, supposedly so that the soldier would be able to find it easily during combat. The French designers had completely neglected to include a safety catch.

  The sniper wasn’t interested in design flaws. His concentration was completely on the staggering camel and how its head fitted into the rifle’s sights, since there was no telescopic sight attached. He adjusted his aim to take into account the shimmering heat waves rising from the rocky ground. He let his breath out slightly, then squeezed the trigger. The rifle bucked against his shoulder, and the bullet flew downrange at 823 meters per second. The camel died instantaneously, the top of its skull disintegrating. The beast toppled sideways and was still, a cloud of dust and sand marking its passage. The sniper worked the bolt, forward, up, backward in one quick maneuver as the boom echoed around the barren, rugged hills.

  “Good shot, Major.”

  Two men rose from behind a pile of rocks that had hidden them from the camel. Both were dressed in a light green military uniform, complete with slanting green berets. If anybody had spotted the men, they would have incorrectly identified the two as French military. They would have been wrong. Both were mercenaries; both were American.

  The man who had spoken was several inches taller than his companion and a lot bulkier. He lowered the binoculars that he had used to witness the camel’s death and replaced them with dark sunglasses. The sniper didn’t bother with sunglasses. He kept his eyes firmly on the kill. Soon the creatures that lived in the desert would move in, drawn to the scent of fresh blood. There would be a feast this night, for many nights, as the scavengers fed off the carcass.

  “You know, Krulak, I almost feel sorry for that camel. What do you reckon, a stray? Ran away from the camel train? Wild? I wonder what its story was.”

  Krulak laughed. “Now, now, Major. Don’t get all soft on me. Feel sorry for a camel? The thing was already dead on its feet. I can see the headlines now. Heat causes Major Victor Streib to go la-la, starts feeling sorry for camels. Brave, handsome Sergeant Henry ‘Hank’ Krulak assumes command. So, what did you think of the general’s gift?”

  Streib examined the old rifle. “Nice sights. Trigger is a little sloppy, but I put that down to age. Nice and thin and basic. Recoil is a little up and to the left. I was aiming for the camel’s eye.”

  The sergeant laughed again. “Are you kidding, sir? You missed its eye by an inch. You blew the camel’s freaking head off, sir!”

  “Yes, I suppose I did. Speaking of the general, we’d better be getting back to camp. We wouldn’t want to keep the man waiting, now, would we?”

  “No, sir, we would not. We might hurt his inflated sense of pride again, and that would never do.”

  Streib chuckled at the reference to the Djiboutian general’s vanity and size. He worked the bolt of the rifle several times, ejecting the rounds of ammunition from the rifle’s staggered box magazine. It wouldn’t do to stumble when carrying the rifle, seeing as there was no safety catch.

  The two mercenaries had known each other for years, serving in the US military together in Afghanistan and Iraq. It was Iraq that had brought their joint downfall. While manning a checkpoint outside Baghdad, they had come under fire by militants in a battered old car. The mil
itants hadn’t stood a chance. The soldiers had returned fire, destroying the car, killing the occupants.

  It was all caught on camera by an embedded CNN reporter—including the cross fire and ricochets, which killed several Iraqi children in a nearby bus.

  There was an uproar over the shooting of children; the fact that some of the fatal shots came from the militants’ wild firing was completely ignored.

  Streib, as checkpoint commander, took the fall for the deaths and resigned his commission after a court of inquiry found him indirectly guilty. Krulak also resigned, believing the commission and the Army bureaucracy to be out of touch. Months after the shooting they were back in America, unemployed, drinking beer and wondering what to do with themselves. Civilian life didn’t have anything to offer, and neither did working for one of the big private-security contractors. So they’d gone into business for themselves, starting a small private-security firm that trained bodyguards for celebrities and rich private citizens.

  They’d been moderately successful in a very competitive arena known as The Circuit. Soon they had recruited another twenty ex-military men, all disenchanted at the thought of life on Main Street, USA. Countries in Africa had called, wanting their troops to be brought up to scratch. The money and clientele had rolled in. It was then that Trenchard Oil Industries had contacted them.

  They always met Robert Trenchard’s chauffeur, never Trenchard himself. The great man probably deemed himself too high to fraternize with such pond scum, they theorized. But neither man cared. The chauffeur was himself a former soldier, thus military terminology never presented a problem. The assignment was simple. Go to Djibouti, make contact with one General Dileila Bouh of the Djiboutian army and train a small group of a hundred men in tactics and weapons. The tactics required were that of street fighting, moving door-to-door, clearing rooms, fighting from rooftops. The weapons would be supplied by Bouh, all of French origin. Trenchard Oil Industries would meet all costs through a variety of shell companies. The objectives were never explained, but Streib had learned enough to know that the general and the oil baron were planning a coup.

  Streib did not have a problem with that. What happened in some backwater African country was of little consequence. Coups happened all the time. As long as his men were not called on to go into combat, then it didn’t matter what happened. As far as he could see, very little would change if there was an uprising. One lifetime dictator would be replaced by another, the United States would still have its base at Lemonnier—the Djiboutian army was nowhere near good enough to take that on—and the French would still be in country. As long as they were paid, there would not be a problem.

  Getting into the country unnoticed had been easy. Trenchard Oil Industries had hired an old freighter and the twenty men in Streib’s team had simply slipped over the side on a dark night, quietly rowing away in black dinghies as the ship entered Djibouti’s harbor. The ship’s master and crew had been paid enough to keep their mouths shut about their mysterious passengers. The former soldiers had then made contact with General Bouh, who had them transported to the Obcock region to train his men. That had been three weeks ago.

  They approached their vehicle. It, like everything they had been supplied with, was French made. And at least twenty years old. The rifles, the armored personnel carriers and the all-terrain truck. All of it was pristine but out of date. Streib wondered if Bouh had been hiding equipment for years. The 4x4 ACMAT two-and-a-half-ton vehicle looked more like a stretched Land Rover than a truck. Built especially for long-range patrols over difficult terrain, the ACMAT had a range of a thousand miles, carried two hundred-liter water tanks for personnel and could be fitted with either a .50-caliber machine gun or a Milan antitank missile launcher.

  Streib stowed the French rifle in a side compartment and climbed into the passenger seat as Krulak clambered behind the steering wheel and started the engine. Within moments they were bouncing across the desert, heading for the training camp and mock village that they had constructed.

  “Do you think Bouh will be able to keep his promise, you know, to keep the Foreign Legion at bay?” Krulak had to shout over the roar of the diesel engine while fighting to keep the truck in a straight line over the rough terrain.

  “What concerns me more is how he’ll do it. I can’t see Legionnaires being confined to barracks, even if the US Marine Corps is. And how do you bribe a Legionnaire? The only way to stop a patrol would be to take them out. And once the patrol is missed, the rest of their friends will begin searching for them. And there is no way that Bouh’s troops are good enough to take on the 13th Regiment.” Streib braced himself as the ACMAT leaped over a sand dune. He pushed himself back from the dashboard. “A little slower, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sorry, Major. And those men who Bouh wants trained? They’re not regular Djiboutian soldiers.”

  “Nope, they’re cannon fodder, nothing more. I suspect that they are Eritrean or Ethiopian, promised a better life by Bouh. It’s quite a simple plot when you think about it. Trenchard discovers oil and wants to drill it, or mine it, or suck it out with a straw, whatever they do. But they don’t want to share with other oil companies. Trenchard learns that Bouh is susceptible to a bribe. They work out a plan of action whereby Bouh gets into power and Trenchard gets exclusive drilling rights in the country, with Trenchard picking up the tab. Our job is to train the cattle so it looks as if there’s civil unrest and the country titters on the brink of civil war. Then Bouh’s real troops move in, restore order, but not before the cannon fodder have assassinated the main political leaders. A nice bit of treachery for one and all.”

  “Yep, that’s what I figured. Those mooks that Bouh has us training have no idea how to fire those FAMAS rifles. Why he just didn’t give us AKs is beyond me.”

  Krulak downshifted the gears, driving the truck up a steep slope. After several seconds of engine strain they reached the crest and looked down into the valley below. Krulak put the truck into Neutral.

  It was more of a large crater, running north to south, two miles long and three miles wide. A massive hole in the desert. Completely hidden from outside view, it made a perfect base of operations. At the top end was a large cluster of sand-colored tents, housing the men. Parked nearby were several more ACMAT trucks, all fitted out as troop carriers. Next to them were a couple of armored personnel carriers. The middle of the valley had an obstacle course and a shooting range. Toward the end was a series of mock buildings and alleys, where the trainees had to practice their street-fighting skills. Trainers made the trainees jog from one end to the other, with threats to shoot dead anyone who fell behind. The empty threat carried weight. So far, none of the trainees had been shot.

  “Not exactly state-of-the-art, is it?” Krulak stated.

  “No, and with any luck we won’t be here much longer. I have just about had enough of Bouh’s hospitality, I’ve had enough of this heat and I definitely have had enough of these flies! Where the fuck do they come from?” He waved the irritating insects away from his face. “Two or three days more, then we’ll extract. Trenchard has paid the money, and Bouh’s ‘soldiers’ are almost ready to leave. I see no reason to hang around. Once the coup starts there’s no reason for us to be caught up in it.”

  “The ship will pick us up again? You heard from them?”

  “They dock in the morning. They’ll pick us up when they depart, same place.”

  Krulak nodded. He put the ACMAT into gear and drove slowly down the side of the crater and into the camp. He parked next to the two Renault VAB armored personnel carriers. The APCs were the four-wheeled version, capable of carrying ten fully equipped men as well as a driver and commander. The vehicles were fitted with a one-man, roof-mounted turret that contained a single 7.62 mm machine gun. When it came time to leave, Streib intended to borrow them in a dash to the coast where the dinghies were hidden.

  Krulak turned off the engine and the two men clambered out of the uncomfortable truck. Another man, dressed in a kha
ki combat uniform, promptly joined them beside the vehicle. He saluted Major Streib. Old habits die hard, Streib thought as he returned the salute.

  “At ease. Report.”

  “Sir, we have received notification that General Bouh will be joining us within the next few minutes.”

  Streib closed his eyes. He heard Krulak mutter “shit.” The last thing he wanted was to see Bouh again. The man was infuriating with his casual disregard for the men under his command. Bouh was a menace, a vainglorious menace, and was not to be trusted as far as he could be thrown.

  “Very well. Have a couple of snipers posted around, just in case the general goes nuts on us.”

  “Yes, sir!” The former gunnery sergeant saluted again and turned, hurrying off to a nearby tent. Within moments several ex-soldiers were scrambling up the slopes to find hiding positions behind outcrops. Streib retrieved his rifle from the ACMAT. He reloaded the magazine, making sure that it was ready to fire.

  “Expecting trouble, Major?” Krulak asked as he checked that his own pistol was clear of blockage and ready to fire. It was another French weapon, a 9 mm MAS 50 based on the trusted Browning design. Krulak didn’t particularly like the weapon, but again there was no choice. At least it worked and carried a nine-round magazine.

  “Not really, but you never know with that fat asshole. If he does try to pull a fast one, then he’ll send in his men and stand well clear. Coming here personally means that he has something to tell us. And, if I am not mistaken, here’s the gluttonous bastard now.”

  Both men turned to watch the approaching APC. Whereas the Renault VAB had a practical look, this combat vehicle was pure intimidation. The South African–built Ratel command vehicle approached the tents, following the same path that the ACMAT had taken. The Ratel was far more heavily armed than its Renault counterpart. A fully armored top turret contained a 12.7 mm machine gun, and two more 7.62 mm machine guns were mounted externally. It was an awesome APC, and Streib did not want to go up against it in combat.

  The heavy carrier roared to a stop several yards away. The rear doors opened, ejecting four Djiboutian soldiers, who took up defensive positions. Streib wasn’t impressed by the general’s show. The soldiers could be easily mowed down, defensive position or not. His snipers would take them out in seconds if the situation warranted it. Both Streib and Krulak tried not to laugh as the driver ran around to the side door of the APC, opening it, then assisting the overweight general in exiting the vehicle.