Pirate Offensive

Chapter 3

Key West, Florida

It was a quiet night along the Keys, and the little chain of scattered islands looked peaceful. The elevated highway that connected them back to mainland America had almost no traffic, and the ocean was quiescent, the swells low and gentle, the breeze balmy and warm. A picture-postcard night for a tropical paradise.

There was no moon in the sky, which was keeping most of the honeymooners and tourists off the white sand beaches. Hot and jazzy Latin music emanated from a dozen bars and restaurants , and the police rode bicycles along the clean streets, mostly just watching out for drunks and the occasional lost child.

Sitting alongside each other on a stone breakwater, the two men waggled their bare feet in the air, each of them floating in a private cosmos.

““Hey,” one of them said suddenly, shaken from his reverie.

“What?”

“Fireworks, man. Look at the fireworks!”

Squinting into the distance, the first man laughed at what appeared to be an old fishing trawler sending out flares. This close to land? The crew could walk to the beach and never get their shirts wet. Strange.

“Got your camera, dude?”

“Always!”

“Shoot the ship, man. Something fishy here.”

“Ha! Fishy. Ship. No, wait...”

Suddenly, a red dot appeared on the wall between them. The first man tried to swat it away like an annoying bug. A split second later, something large zoomed across the water and slammed into the wall.

The blast threw both of them high, wide and in a hundred tattered pieces, the wall erupting into a fireball. The detonation rumbled across the sleepy town like an angry peal of thunder, rattling windows and setting off dozens of car alarms.

Onboard the trawler, Lieutenant Gloria Fields scowled at the laughing man standing nearby. “Was that really necessary?”

“A diversion to confuse the police,” Chung replied, tossing the spent rocket launcher into the ocean. “Now, let’s get those chips!”

Almost straight ahead of the trawler, onshore, sat a low, white stone building, three stories tall and surrounded by lush palm trees and exotic flowering bushes. The sign across the front read, “Maxwell Armatures.” No lights were on inside the structure.

“The microchips are in the safe on the third floor,” Captain Narmada said. “I want them all.”

“So be it,” Lieutenant Fields said, swinging a LAW rocket launcher onto her shoulder.

Pressing the release button, she extended the collapsible tube to its full length. As the sights popped up, the firing button was revealed. Spreading her legs slightly for a better stance, she aimed for the third floor corner and pressed the button.

A double volcano of flame and smoke erupted from both ends of the lightweight tube, the back blast extending for a dozen yards across the trawler and out to sea. A sharp stiletto of flame lanced from the front port, and the 66 mm rocket streaked away.

The rocket punched straight through the bulletproof windows then exploded inside, engulfing the entire third floor in a roiling chemical hell storm.

“Yee-haw!” shouted Chung as Fields shot a second LAW rocket into the building.

“Again,” said Narmada. “We need the lab leveled.”

“Whatever you say, sir.” Chung lifted a Carl Gustav from the open case of launchers on the deck.

Sliding in a napalm rocket, he hit the ground floor once more, the blast spreading outward from every broken window. The building started to sag, then tilt, wide cracks opening in the stucco siding.

Lieutenant Fields added two more LAWs into the crumbling foundation. The double blast did the trick, and the entire laboratory complex collapsed inward, throwing up a wild display of bright embers and swirling smoke.

Fire engines could now be heard, closely followed by the wail of police sirens and ambulances.

“Send in the tank,” Narmada said, lifting a LAW from the case. “I’ll handle these fools.”

The front of the modified trawler slammed onto the pristine white beach, and a LAV-25 armored personnel carrier, or APC, rumbled out of the hold and onto dry land. Charging forward, the driver smashed aside the white stone tide wall and everything else in its way.

When the LAV-25 reached the ruins of the Maxwell laboratory, the driver started moving around the rubble in concentric circles until the armored prow clanged into something very hard. Burning timbers fell away to reveal a squat, armored vault.

Like a soccer player maneuvering a ball toward the goal, the tank driver pushed into the heavy cube, knocking it out of the growing inferno and bringing it to rest safely on a relatively undamaged patch of parking lot.

Sirens screaming, three police cars, followed by fire trucks and ambulances, squealed into the parking lot.

From his position on the trawler, Narmada sent two LAW rockets directly into the cluster of emergency vehicles. Suddenly, the rear of the tank slammed open and out came a group of men wearing fire-resistant suits and driving a small forklift. They had a little trouble getting the safe onto the prongs, but it was finally accomplished, and the steel box was loaded with extreme care into the rear of the APC. The fit was tight, but the intel had been good, and the rear doors closed firmly.

Chung, Fields and Narmada watched the tank drive back toward the trawler.

“Keep an eye out for jet fighters from Gitmo,” warned Narmada, swinging up a Sidewinder missile launcher and activating the radar.

“Gitmo?”

“Or Miami. They’re both close enough to do a recon.”

However, the empty sky remained clear as the APC trundled back into the ship, and the landing hatch was cycled back into place. Leaving the harbor, the trawler headed directly out to sea.

* * *

SUDDENLY, CHUNG GAVE a cry and staggered backward on deck, his shoulder gushing blood.

“Impossible!” Fields gasped, squinting into the darkness toward the coastline.

A second later, wild gunfire erupted onshore, the bright flashes of a small-caliber pistol strobing on the beach. The shots seemed wild, erratic. But another incoming round hit the door to the wheelhouse, and a third zinged off a brass stanchion.

“Bastard got me,” Chung grunted, slapping a hand on top of the wound. “Filthy stinking islanders...”

“Did you really expect them not to shoot back?” asked Narmada, sounding almost amused.

“I thought we’d taken them all out!” Lieutenant Fields shouted.

Chung, stumbled to a weapons chest, pushing aside a Redeye and a LAW to triumphantly extract a very old four-shot rocket launcher.

“Clear the deck!” he screamed, then started shooting, not caring if there was anybody behind him to be obliterated by the back blast.

Soon, a wall of flames spread across the beach, and Chung tossed the rocket launcher overboard with a grunt of satisfaction.

“Get below and see the doc,” Narmada said, still watching the sky.

“I’m fine.” Chung winced as his arm moved.

“No, you’re not, and that was an order, not a request.”

Scowling darkly, Chung paused, then nodded and started toward the nearest hatchway.

“Sir...” Lieutenant Fields began.

“Long story, Lieutenant,” replied Narmada. “Suffice it to say that unless he draws a weapon and points it at me, my personal debt to Chung will never be canceled. Good enough?”

“Whatever you say, sir.”

The nameless trawler was just reaching the horizon, the fires on the beach disappearing below the waves, when the night was cut by the loud siren of a Coast Guard cutter streaming in from another Key. Without pause, Narmada and Fields both opened fire, and the cutter vanished.

Chapter 4

The Bermuda Triangle, Atlantic Ocean

It was raining again.

Not a real storm, or a squall, or even a proper downpour, just a steady, miserable mist that seemed to seep down every collar, dampening clothing and skin. The rebels stayed inside as much as possible, closely watching the radar screen, while Bolan felt compelled to stand on the bow to watch for other vessels.

Naturally, his crates weren’t the only cargo in the hold—that would look too suspicious, even to amateurs, but he hoped the bait would be irresistible. Despite the fact that the Triangle was a known hot spot for pirates, many rich fools sailed their million-dollar yachts in these dangerous waters to have bragging rights at cocktail parties back home in Manhattan, London or Milan. But not all of them came back alive. Pirates grew rich over the foolishness of people who thought great wealth gave them some sort of protection against the wild animals in the world.

Sometimes wisdom comes very hard, Bolan noted dourly, wiping the mist from his face. The peaceful governments of the world did what they could to patrol the high seas. But the oceans were vast and the pirates very fast.

The Constitution was a Canadian ore freighter, massive and heavy, with all of the maneuverability of a sand bar. But the superstructure was strong, and the hull had been reinforced with concrete.

The rows of big diesel engines purred, and the ship carried more assorted firepower than anything Bolan had ever ridden. Half of the lifeboats were actually quad-formation .50 machine guns. A 20 mm M61 Vulcan that nobody had gotten to work properly yet was mounted at the bow, and the ship carried depth charge racks and torpedo tubes from what Bolan thought must have been a PT boat. A wooden cabin on the foredeck contained a short-barrel Howitzer. Bolan did not want to be anywhere near that antique when it was used, highly suspecting that it would do more damage to the Constitution than any enemy.

This was their fourth trip across the Atlantic, and Bolan had stopped at every small island he could to cheaply sell weapons, mostly rifles and handguns, to each group of freedom fighters that he considered worthy of support. A few of them even got LAW rockets. Eventually, he figured, Narmada would learn that about the sales and come hunting. But so far, nothing.

Major Cortez and her people, however, were delighted to learn about magnetic signs, and there were now a dozen names for the old war craft. At the moment, they were flying the Australian flag and bearing the name Dingo Bob.

Unfortunately, it had been three long weeks at sea, and Bolan was running low on missiles, money and patience. He was starting to think this plan was a failure. The thought did not bother him very much. All battle plans were vulnerable to circumstance. He had known this ploy was a long shot, but had believed that Narmada could not resist the temptation of acquiring SOTA missiles to go along with his stolen microchips. Put together, the modified missiles would be unstoppable at short range.

“Are you sure that last group wasn’t them?” asked Private Jenna Carrera, her hands moving steadily along the old wooden frame of her Browning automatic rifle. The wood gleamed from her constant administrations.

Privately, Bolan appreciated her attention to details. He’d seen her shoot during the last pirate raid, and her accuracy approached his. Most impressive.

“Sadly, no,” Bolan replied, turning up the collar of his jacket. “They were just a bunch of Somalis out for a fast raid. Slaves and guns. They’d have taken the ship too, if they could have.”

“Not the Dingo!” Carrera laughed, working the arming lever and firing the weapon. Somewhere in the mist, a seagull cried out as it was hit and died.

“You are very good,” Bolan said, giving his highest compliment. Just then, Carrera’s head jerked to the side, and a red geyser exploded out of her temple.

Even before the corpse hit the deck, Bolan snatched away the BAR and started firing into the fog.

“Incoming!” Bolan yelled at the top of his lungs.

That was when he heard the unmistakable sound of a lawn mower. What the hell?

Then the real source of the noise became clear, and he dove to the side, swinging up the BAR. Martins!

Three irregular shapes descended through the mist, their angular wings kicking out powerful columns of hot air. As the men landed on the wet deck, they drew silenced weapons and spread out, shooting everybody in sight.

Bolan waited until they were past him, then delivered a single thundering round from the BAR directly into the vulnerable fuel tanks. As gasoline gushed out of the holes, the men turned around fast, weapons blazing.

They burst into flames instantly and started screaming.

Firing again, Bolan put hot lead through their helmets, and their burning bodies tumbled into the water below.

Blood mixed with fuel under the gentle wash of the rain. Removing the spent magazine, Bolan reloaded the BAR. Martin jetpacks! That explained how Narmada got his people onto the other ships so damn fast. Wait for rain, snipe any guards on deck, send in your flybys and start the slaughter.

Having flown the bizarre machine many times before, Bolan knew the Martin was not actually a jetpack. That was just what it was called, merely advertising. Some crazy engineer down in New Zealand had discovered a way to modify the ducted fans of a standard military jetfighter to propel humans into the air. It flew at up to sixty miles per hour, with a thirty-minute flight time.

But three men dropping in with silenced weapons did not make a boarding party, Bolan realized. They were a holding force.

Muttering a curse, Bolan sprinted across the slippery deck and scrambled into the wheelhouse. As expected, the pilot and navigator were dead in their chairs, blood dripping from the holes in their heads, broken glass from the small windows scattered across the floor.

Keeping low, Bolan locked the joystick into place, then hit the Master Collision button. A series of klaxons started to clang across the modified freighter, and he grabbed the hand mike.

“Get hard, people. The pirates are here!” Bolan shouted, hoping his words were discernible over the deafening alarm. “All hands, battle stations!”

A split second later, the loudspeakers started to howl with an eerie, modulating wail.

Jammed! Casting aside the useless microphone, Bolan shoved the speed control to maximum, smashed the joystick with the butt of his rifle and dashed back into the rain.

The mist obscured any possible view of additional Martins in the sky, but Bolan felt confident that Narmada would have sent in everything he had in the first wave. Hold the main deck, and the crew were prisoners.

Unfortunately, there was also no way to see any incoming vessels. But Bolan knew they were coming. If they were all old Russian fishing trawlers, he could be traveling with a dozen ships. Bolan felt confident that the rebels could sink maybe half that number with their weaponry, but then the Constitution would be taken.

Turning around fast, Bolan fired the BAR across the deck. The lines holding a lifeboat in place snapped, and the craft flipped over and dropped into the sea. An escape route. It wasn’t much, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.

Reloading, Bolan started for the main hatchway. Kicking open the wooden door, Bolan frowned at the sight of several rebels sprawled on the metal stairs, a thick gray smoke issuing steadily from the air vents. Exhaling as hard as he could, Bolan stepped back into the rain and shouldered the BAR. He drew a knife and slashed off a wet sleeve, tying it around his face as a crude gas mask.

Bolan descended the steps, his boots clanging on the corrugated metal. He headed straight to his cabin. He had U.S. Army surplus gas masks in a box stuffed under his bunk. Not enough for the whole crew, but sufficient for a handful of the Ghost Jaguars to fight.

The gas continued to bellow out of every air vent, and Bolan was starting to feel dizzy by the time he reached his cabin. He had the key, somewhere, but he could not find it. Knowing unconsciousness was close, Bolan simply shot open the lock to his own room and staggered inside.

He ripped off the blankets, yanked open a drawer and pulled on a gas mask. It took every ounce of his iron resolve to wait a few moments to check the seals before allowing himself a breath. The chemically scented air tasted bitter, almost foul, but Bolan gratefully filled his aching lungs.

As the dizziness eased, Bolan stuffed a pillowcase with masks and lumbered back into the smoky corridor. He had no idea if this was a poison gas or sleep gas, but his gut reading on the pirates was that they would want the crew alive to open safes and move cargo. Corpses only fed the fishes. Live men could be made to work.

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.