Rogue Elements. Don Pendleton
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bag and stepped out of the chopper. He fell four feet and landed lightly on the massive cargo hatch. The rest of the team followed. The chopper flew away without a wave goodbye.
“Motherfucker,” Sifuentes declared.
Bolan listened to his instincts. “Ketch?”
The man blinked and looked away from the departing helicopter. “Yeah?”
“I’m taking command.”
“Thank God.”
A clutch of off-duty crewmen smoked and took in the newcomers. Ibarra held most of their attention. Bolan nodded at a lanky blond man with a beard. “Hey, sailor.”
The sailor spoke back with an American accent. “Hey, yourself, asshole.”
“What’s your name?”
“Houston, Crane Specialist, what’s it to you?”
“I need to speak to the captain immediately.”
Crane Specialist Houston regarded the Viking detail dubiously. “Shouldn’t you guys have guns?”
“Yeah, and that’s what I need to talk to the captain about.”
The sailor scowled. “We don’t have any. It’s against company rules.”
“I know, and you’re going to get hit tonight, tomorrow by the latest.”
The sailor’s face went blank. “We’re going to get hijacked? In the next twenty-four hours?”
“No, the Caprice is going to disappear, with all hands.”
The sailor just stared.
“Houston?” Bolan locked eyes with the sailor. “We have a problem.”
The sailor ran toward the superstructure waving his arms and shouting. “Captain!”
* * *
“We’re about to be attacked?” the captain asked. “Really?”
Bolan could not imagine a more stereotypical ship captain. Merchant captains these days usually wore a shirt with the shipping company logo on it and whatever civvies were comfortable for the climate. Captain Douglas Cleverly wore a crisp white uniform blouse with epaulettes while on duty with the matching white captain’s hat. He also had a beard, smoked a pipe and spoke with a British accent.
Bolan cocked his head. Cleverly had a distinctly military bearing. “Her Majesty’s Royal Navy?”
Cleverly allowed himself a small smile. “I commanded a frigate. I retired. Then my twin daughters decided they wanted to go college. In the United States, and you now find me in mercantile shipping.” His smile died. “Now, from what I gather, you are implying that the Caprice is being set up for an attack, and your own employers are setting you up to fail.”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“That is the most ridiculous bloody thing I have ever heard.” Cleverly snorted. “And, as I mentioned, I commanded a frigate in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. You would not believe some of the things I’ve heard, much less seen.”
“Would you believe me if I said I do?”
The captain looked Bolan up and down again and nodded. “Perhaps.”
“Captain, I hope I’m wrong, and if I am I’ll buy you a bottle of scotch.”
Cleverly spoke without missing a beat. “Glenlivet twelve-year-old will do nicely. Your earliest opportunity will be at the duty free in Jeddah.”
“Done,” Bolan agreed. “But meantime I would like you to operate on the assumption that this ship will be under attack in the next twenty-four hours.”
“It is against company policy for any officer, sailor or specialist on this shipping line to have a firearm or anything else that constitutes a lethal weapon on board. That said, I have a Browning Hi-Power with two spare magazines and a box of ammunition in my cabin. Are you requisitioning them?”
“No, but I suggest you load it and keep it handy. If worse comes to worst, use it to defend the bridge.”
“Then, forgive me, but just what is it I can do for you?”
“I gather if the ship is attacked and looks like it is going to be taken you have a safe room protocol?”
“Yes, if the ship looks be lost, I have the power to disable navigation and steering, and there is a four-cornered bulkhead area below that the crew can retreat to.”
“Then all I can ask is for you to aggressively maneuver the ship with the water cannons in mind up until we are boarded. What you do after that is up to you and the crew.”
“Forgive me for asking, but what exactly will you be doing during the attack, Mr...?”
“Blue.”
“Mr. Blue.”
“Defending the Caprice. That’s our job. Speaking of which, what’s in the manifest?”
“Mostly building supplies bound for Port Sudan.”
“What else?”
“Kerosene, again for Port Sudan. The country pretty much runs on it at this point.”
Bolan nodded. “Anything else of note?”
“Two container units of Indian Amrut Brandy, bound for ports of call the Prophet Mohammed would not approve of, and, might I add, if this all some sad plot to finagle a grog ration, I will—”
“I’ll need two cases of the Amrut, actually just the bottles, and four or five cans of kerosene.” Bolan quirked an eyebrow for what was becoming his munition of choice on the Arabian Peninsula. “Got any liquid soap?”
Captain Cleverly saw exactly where this was going. “Oh...my...God...”
“Oh, and I need to talk to the engineer.” Bolan saw his plan coming together. “I’ll need ball bearings, biggest he has.”
* * *
Bolan stood in front of a folding table and addressed his team. Morale was about as low as it could get. The Executioner shouted, “At attention!”
Team Viking snapped to attention.
“The enemy will most likely attack us midships, in fast boats, attempting to avoid the water cannons and erect boarding ladders. They will not be easily dissuaded. It is my personal opinion that they intend to take the Caprice, kill everyone on board, including us, and make it disappear. The captain and crew will try to maneuver the water cannons into position, but they will be mostly useless.”
“No fucking shit!” Mendez agreed. “So we’re back to you and Sifu’s liquid soap and souvenir dagger defense? I say we call Hy back and seriously renege on our contracts! If he won’t come, we commandeer the lifeboat and get the hell out of here. Who’s with me?”
Mono, Big Abe and Ketch looked on the verge of agreeing. Sifuentes gave Bolan a guilty look.
Ibarra gave Mendez a Latina-to-Latino head fake and sneer. “Puto.”
He stabbed a defiant finger her way. “Call me anything you want, honey! You go ahead and stay here with your gringo boyfriend! The Somali pirates will probably do things to you he’s afraid to try! Me? I am out!”
Mono and Ketch nodded.
Bolan nodded. “Laz?”
“Yeah?”
Bolan dropped to one knee and hurled a right-hand lead into Mendez’s bladder. He folded as Bolan rose. The Executioner watched with clinical detachment as his teammate writhed, clutched and peed his cargo pants. “That’s pee, Laz. The next time I hit you, you’ll pee blood, and I’ll throw you overboard. The minute you stepped off that chopper you were in. All in. There is no going back.