It was a common problem. The generals and bean counters were happy to overwhelm a traditional enemy on the field of battle, but less intense problems—like asymmetric conflict against a crude group of pirates—got cents in the dollar applied to them.
“The lack of resources makes our job impossible.” Laidlaw continued as he poured himself another glass of tequila and topped up Herron’s. “We’re told to stop the hijackings, but the best I can do is send choppers to the ships they hit.”
“The locals can’t handle it?”
Laidlaw sighed. “The President of the Philippines denies the piracy is based out of his country and refuses to lift a finger to do anything to help stop it. ‘Why not the CIA or the special forces?’ will be your next question, but…”
“But the current American President is sensitive to claims of western imperialism in a former territory, so he’s refusing to do anything more than police international waters.”
Laidlaw grinned. “You do still read the news.”
“Why not just launch a Tomahawk at their base?”
“Because bombing poor towns and villages doesn’t go over well in the press.” Laidlaw sipped his drink. “Not that it matters, I don’t know even where the base is.”
“The Vietnam Paradox.” Herron let the words hang heavy in the air. “How do you remove a cancer from otherwise healthy tissue?”
“You use a damn sharp scalpel.”
Herron leaned forward on his elbows. “I’m out of the business.”
“And helping me will keep you out of it.” The meaning in the captain’s words was clear. “What do you think?”
Herron drained his whiskey. He could understand Laidlaw’s need and why he was asking, but it still felt like blackmail. But in the captain’s position, Herron might have done the same. “All right.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear.” Laidlaw finished his own drink. “You’re still spending the night in the brig, though.”
Herron tensed. “Why the hell would I do that?”
Laidlaw frowned in confusion, then relaxed. “You really are paranoid, just like always. I need to keep you hidden. The more people see you on board, the harder it is not to report you being here.”
“And I don’t want to do that.” Herron laid back down on the bed and closed his eyes, satisfied with the bargain he’d made, even though he knew it was blackmail. “I never knew you cared so much.”
“I suggest you get some rest.” Laidlaw stood, gathered the glasses, and headed for the door. “Because it might be a while before you next can.”
Some hours later, Herron opened his eyes to the sound of a cough. Laidlaw stood in the doorway with a pair of duffel bags.
“Hope you got some sleep.” The captain’s voice was deadpan as he dropped the bags by Herron’s bed. “Meet me outside when you’re ready.”
Laidlaw left as Herron rubbed his face and sat up. He bent down and examined the bags. One was filled with water, provisions, clothes, and footwear; the other held a combat knife, a suppressed submachine gun, a suppressed pistol, spare magazines, and a Manila folder filled with printed-out reports and photographs.
He got to work on the small stack of intelligence reports—it was as close to a mission brief as he was going to get, everything the Navy had on the pirates and the series of villages in eastern Philippines they were believed to operate from.
It seemed they had been sitting on intel about one member of the hijacking ring for a while—Herron was to go to his home and start working his way up the food chain. He studied the photographs and satellite imagery of the man’s hometown, then moved on to the rest of the pack. It was general intelligence about the hijackers, their targets, and their tactics. There wasn’t a lot, but it gave him a better idea about the group than he’d had before: they’d terrorised twenty-seven vessels in one year, dressing up their attacks as a statement against wealthy oppressors. Their tactics were aggressive and, except for Herron and Lynda, they’d left nobody left alive on the ships they’d attacked. They struck, killed everyone, took what they could and then melted away before help could arrive.
A few times, he stopped to eat or take a swig from his canteen—when he was eventually done with the intelligence dossier, he burned it all with a Zippo lighter Laidlaw had included in the duffel bag. By the time the files were nothing but ash, he was prepared to set out, far more informed than before.
Now he knew the pirate’s motivation: profit, above all else, but with enough of a veneer of anti-imperialism to allow them to hide among the locals.
He knew their victim profile: soft targets that belonged only to western countries—yachts and cargo ships with small crews that could be easily overwhelmed.
He knew their methods: shock and awe, overwhelming crews with waves of attackers, until they could ransack the vessel.
He knew the villages American intelligence suspected housed them: none were far inland, the nearest close enough for Herron to reach on foot within a day.
But, best of all, he knew where to start.
He dressed in the tactical gear, stuffed the remaining equipment into the bag and left the brig. Laidlaw was waiting outside and led him through the ship. The crew members they came across didn’t make eye contact and, as far as they were concerned, he didn’t exist.
He was a phantom.
Herron wasn’t surprised. Since 9/11, servicepeople in all branches of the military were used to being in proximity to covert operations. Here, their captain had ordered them to ignore anyone unusual aboard their ship, so they did.
Eventually, they reached the rear of the ship, where the rescue helicopter waited in silence and darkness. Herron’s first thought was that he’d be flying out to complete his mission, but Laidlaw moved past it and continued to the stern, where a pirate Zodiac waited, ready to be winched down to the water.
“We retrieved it after a previous attack.” Laidlaw answered the unasked question. “We even hosed out the blood.”
“Okay. Just point me in the right direction and I’ll get moving.”
“We’re off the coast of the Philippines and as far as my men are concerned, Operation Azure Backlash is an official job well above their pay grade.”
“So, no help there then.”
“You’ll have the area of operations to yourself, because nobody else will lift a finger to stop this problem.” Laidlaw clamped a hand down on Herron’s shoulder. “It’s all up to you now.”
“How aggressive you want me to be with these guys?”
“They’re animals who prey on the vulnerable.” Laidlaw stared out into the dark, unseeing. “I want them eradicated.”
Herron nodded and then saluted Laidlaw. Despite the blackmail, he was still glad he’d run into Laidlaw rather than some other captain. “I’ll get the job done.”
Laidlaw returned the salute. “Nobody aboard this ship will expose that you’ve been here. I can’t promise anything more.”
Without further delay, Herron tossed the bag into the boat and then climbed inside, then waited as the boat was lowered into the ocean. When it was in the water, he fired up the engine, checked his compass, and eased the Zodiac away from the destroyer and within a few minutes found himself alone.
He settled in for the long journey to land with only the soft buzz of the boat’s engine for company, alone with his thoughts under the stars as he had so often been before, sailing the Pacific on his yacht. Would this be the last time, given he’d lost his home and been pulled back into his old life?
Was it even possible for a man like him to live in peace?
He contemplated the question as the boat chewed up the miles to shore, his mood lifting as the first ray of sunshine peered over the horizon. Within minutes, the sunrise was a welcoming beacon dead ahead of him and soon after, and the shore came into sight.
The boat cut through the waves, and Herron beached it on the sand. A quick look around showed there was no sign of anyone nearby. It was all surf, sand, and palm trees—paradise. E
xcept Herron knew that, somewhere in the jungle, there was a big enough threat to cause the deployment of a United States Navy flotilla.
A big enough threat to drag him back into the life he’d sworn to leave behind.
After one last check to make sure nobody had spotted him, Herron hefted the duffel bag over his shoulder, climbed out of the boat and dragged it up onto the sand. It only took a minute to reach the treeline, at which point he pulled out his combat knife and went to work. With more gusto than necessary, he slashed the rubber inflatable in a dozen places, collapsing the boat.
He took a minute to hide the remains against the trunk of a tree and then cover it with foliage. Ideally, he’d bury it, but he didn’t have the time or the tools for that. He had to get away from here fast in case he’d been spotted. Still, by the time he was done, he was satisfied someone would need to step right nearby to see the boat, which was good enough.
Leaving it behind. Herron disappeared into the trees.
3
Herron ran a hand through his hair. It had been slowly receding over the past few years, but whatever he lacked, the day-long trek through the Philippine jungle on the way had replaced with sweat. That and, if he was being honest, too much inactivity on a boat.
Although he’d made a brief return to his old life to stop a civil war in Fiji, Herron felt his edge had dulled a little. He was a little older, a little slower. In Fiji, it hadn’t mattered; here, he doubted it would either, but it made him wonder if he’d have what it took when faced with a genuine threat. One only the best could overcome.
Like a fellow assassin or a team of elite killers.
The thought still on his mind, Herron wiped his sweaty hand on his shorts and continued inland through some of the hardest terrain he’d yet encountered. It would have been easier to take the road towards the town, and he might have been able to hitch a ride, but that would have cost him the chance to scout his first objective—the home of the hijacker identified in the dossier.
He checked his compass to confirm he was still on the right path, then continued overland. Sweat continued to drip down his face, his hair and his clothes wet with perspiration. A few times, nasty-looking bugs landed on him, ready to take a bite—he smashed them into pulp with a quick slap.
Three miles out, he took a break. He wanted to wait until darkness before he entered the town, yet nightfall was still half-a-dozen hours away. He rested with his back against a tree, in the sort of half-awake slumber common on a mission. It was restful, but he was ready to explode into action if needed.
When sunset was near, he opened his eyes. With no great urgency, he ate his fill and sucked down some water, then he geared up and moved out. The last few miles were slower going than earlier because he was being more cautious, but he ran into no trouble.
Finally, he reached a small hill that overlooked the town. Under the pale moonlight and a pair of streetlamps, he could see two rows of ramshackle houses—around two dozen in total—separated by a dirt road down the middle. There were a few rusted white sedans and pickup trucks parked along the street, but otherwise the only other sign of modernity was a flashing Coca-Cola sign on the side of what looked like the general store.
He surveyed the settlement for twenty minutes, looking for any obvious defensive perimeter or armed guards, but failing to identify either. While he was sure at least one civilian in the town was involved in the pirate attacks, he did not know how far the cancer had spread. He might have to deal with a single criminal, or an entire town filled with them.
He set off slowly, careful not to step on any dry branches or trip on a rock. His footfalls as soft as a whisper, he approached the town perpendicular to the main road that ran down its centre and headed behind one row of houses. Few had lights on, and he could see no significant activity inside any of them.
He reached the rear of one of the illuminated houses and peered through a window. With lights on inside and darkness out, he could have been dressed in bright pink and still been invisible to anyone looking out, so he took his time seeing if anyone was home. Eventually, after a few moments, an older woman appeared in the living room and sat on a sofa, but there was no sign of his target.
He repeated the process a few more times with other houses, those inside oblivious to the fox casing their henhouse. None of those he saw matched the photograph of the hijacker, and he lost patience. He needed to change things up.
Careful to stay concealed, he moved along towards the general store with the neon Coke sign, which blazed like a sun on the dimly lit street. Here was the only real chance he’d get to quickly locate his target.
He broke from the darkness and walked beneath the Coke sign, risking exposure for only a second, then hugged the shadows out in front of the store again before surveying the interior. An elderly man was behind the counter. He looked frail, and Herron figured he had little time left.
That fact changed his plan of attack. In his old life, as a member of the Enclave, he would have set the store on fire as he’d originally planned; now, however, he wouldn’t cause trouble for a guy who couldn’t stand it.
He sighed. “You’re too damn nice, Mitch…”
Herron looked around for a new target as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his Zippo lighter. He settled on the carcass of a rusted old sedan right out front of the store. Keeping low, he skulked towards it and crouched down near the driver’s door. Sheltered from the street and confident the old shopkeeper wouldn’t spot him, he went to work.
He tested the handle first and was pleased to find the rust bucket unlocked; better, the interior light failed to come on when the door was opened. Without delay, he set light to the soft interior features of the sedan—the fabric seat covers, carpets and floor mats—and then wound down the window. The job done, he closed the door and slinked away.
While the fire took some time to take hold, once it did it quickly consumed the fuel inside the vehicle. Soon, the fire had spread through the whole car and to the foam of the seats themselves. Next, as the temperature increased and the flames became more intense, the soft plastics burned as well. Within minutes, the whole car was an inferno.
All the while, Herron watched and waited.
The first call of alarm came from the elderly store owner, who rushed outside and shouted for help, then valiantly tried to douse the flames with a fire extinguisher. He achieved little, nor did the few dozen people who spilled out of the houses and came running to help, the entire town ill-equipped to put out the blazing vehicle.
But as everyone focused on the car, resigned to the fact that they’d failed to control the fire, Herron’s attention was elsewhere. In the light of the fire and the Coke sign, he scanned the faces of all those who’d come to help. Almost at once, he spotted the man he was looking for.
It was time for a chat about the loss of his yacht.
Hours later, once the town had settled back into slumber, Herron slid open a window of the hijacker’s house. It raised up smoothly on its runners, and he was glad he wouldn’t have to force the lock or break in. Silently, he climbed through, then closed the window behind him. Still as a corpse, he listened, alert for any sign that his intrusion had disturbed the occupants of the house.
After a minute, he was confident enough to move.
He stalked down the corridor and searched each room he passed. The bathroom, kitchen and small living room were empty, although the old television was turned on and muted. That left only the bedroom at the front of the house near the entrance. The door to the bedroom itself was closed, but it would be a mistake to assume the hijacker was asleep.
Herron drew his pistol and eased the door all the way open. The man was on his back in the bed, eyes closed. He was young, his bare chest visible—rising and falling slowly—and his lower body covered by a threadbare blanket.
He aimed the pistol at his sleeping target and searched the room for weapons, checking the side table and dresser. Then, satisfied there was nothing within reach, he clampe
d a hand down on the man’s mouth and pressed the barrel of the pistol against his skull.
The hijacker inhaled sharply through his nose and his eyes shot open.
Herron smiled down at him. In the darkness, dressed all in black, he figured he looked like death himself. Now he had the man’s attention, he whispered. “Do you speak English?”
The man nodded quickly.
“Good.” Herron flicked on the lamp and stepped away from him. “Lower the bedcovers slowly with your hands in my sight. If you do anything stupid, I’m going to put a bullet in your head.”
The hijacker nodded and pushed down the bedsheets. Herron flicked his eyes between the man and the areas of the bed that were newly exposed, alert for any hidden weapon. But by the time the sheet was down near the foot of the bed, it was clear there were no nasty surprises. Satisfied, Herron took another step back, but kept the gun aimed at the kid.
“What’s your name?”
“Carlos Bautista.” The kid stammered the words, eyes locked on the pistol. “Why are you here?”
Herron gave a bitter laugh. “Someone hijacked my boat.”
Bautista sighed. He understood now. “What do you want to know?”
“Where can I find your boss?”
Bautista shook his head. “You don’t know what dealing with.”
“So, tell me.”
“I don’t–”
Herron moved in and slapped him across his ear. “Talk.”
“Okay!” Bautista sat up in the bed. “I don’t know who is in charge. They send us a message with the target and starting location. We meet at the location, and our boats and weapons are already there.”
“You know nothing ahead of time?” Herron raised an eyebrow. “Not the other hijackers? Times or dates?”
Bautista shook his head. “It’s all done via WhatsApp. We meet at the boats, do the job, and then go our separate ways. I don’t know anyone else, and they don’t know me.”
The Azure Backlash Page 3