Thunder Down Under

by Don Pendleton

  “Just so I’m hearing you straight, you want me to craft an environmental argument that you can use against the AFN?” Bolan asked.

  “I’d love it—love to see the looks on their faces—but I don’t see how you’d manage it,” Martin replied. “However, I’m sure my people would love to hear any ideas you do have on the matter, in case it sparks something for them. It could be we’re missing something that you might be able to find.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Bolan said. “I’m not hugely conversant with Australian property and land law, for example—”

  “But Cindra is,” Martin pointed out. “She can help get you up to speed on it.”

  Her jaw dropped at that. “I’m...not sure I would be able to give Mr. Cooper a thorough enough briefing to assist him in the time we have—”

  “Then just give him the important stuff—you know, like you do for me? The one-pagers? That’s all he really needs, anyway.”

  Glancing at Tate, Bolan saw that she looked like the top of her head was about to explode. “One hundred and sixty years of treaties and land laws crammed into a one-page document,” she muttered. “Hope you like tiny font, Matt,” she said quietly to him.

  “Just do the best you can,” he replied. Bolan actually felt a little bad for her, since it was highly unlikely he was going to use any of the work she would produce.

  He turned back to Martin. “What do you make of the recent, more violent events that have happened against yours and other industrial companies?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Martin said around a mouthful of meat. “They’re getting desperate! We’ve pushed back against them in the courts, and won some significant victories there, too, let me tell you. I think they know they’re on the ropes, so they’re resorting to more violent methods to try to stop us. But there’s no way that will happen, I guarantee that. Wallcorloo, as well as all of the rest of the companies mining the lands, aren’t going anywhere, mark my words.”

  The dessert course was served then, chocolate lava cake with vanilla ice cream. Bolan noticed Martin’s portion was larger than everyone else’s, and he dug into it with almost childlike enthusiasm. Sunny’s portion was half the size of Bolan’s and Tate’s servings. For his part, Bolan only ate enough to be polite.

  As soon as he was done, Martin pushed himself back from the table. “So, you’re heading out to the Amadeus site tomorrow morning, right?”

  Bolan glanced at Tate, who nodded. “That’s correct.”

  “He’ll be flying out in the morning,” she continued. “We’ve allotted a three-hour inspection period, then we’ll be coming back in the late afternoon to go over his thoughts and recommendations.”

  “Sounds great. Can’t wait to hear what you have to say. You’re gonna be impressed by the place. It’s amazing—fully automated, state-of-the-art, the whole works.”

  “I’m looking forward to seeing what you’ve done out there.” Bolan gratefully pushed back from the table. “In fact, I should be getting back to the hotel to get some rest, as it sounds like I’m in for a long day tomorrow.”

  “Exactly.” Martin thrust out his hand, which Bolan took, only to have his palm nearly crushed again. This time, however, he squeezed back, grinding the bones in the other man’s hand until, with an effort, Martin disengaged, flexing his hand and looking like he was trying very hard not to rub it with his other one.

  “Right, so I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon then,” he said, already turning away. “Cindra can show you the way out.”

  “With pleasure,” she muttered.

  “Thank you both for a lovely evening,” Bolan said to Sunny’s and Martin’s retreating backs as he rose. “It’s been...quite eventful.”

  Chapter Ten

  Thunder rumbled overhead as Bolan and Tate walked through the lobby and headed outside. He had been wrestling with what to say to her during the elevator ride down, but had kept silent. He couldn’t be sure it wasn’t bugged and he didn’t want to say anything that might give Martin or anyone else a reason to be suspicious of him.

  Bolan turned in his visitor’s badge and the lanyard, then he opened the door for Tate and they walked outside. The offshore wind had picked up with the incoming storm, bringing with it the scent of the ocean. On the other side of the road, the protestors were still at it, waving their signs and chanting at the mostly dark building. Bolan hadn’t paid attention to what they were saying on the way in, but now he took a moment to listen to their question-and-answer cadence.

  “When the air we breathe is under attack, what do we do?”

  “Stand up, fight back!”

  “When the water we drink is under attack, what do we do?”

  “Stand up, fight back!”

  “When the earth we need is under attack, what do we do?”

  “Stand up, fight back!”

  “What do we do? Stand up, fight back!”

  “What do we do? Stand up, fight back!”

  “What do we do? Stand up, fight back!”

  Finally he turned to the young woman next to him. “Cindra, I want to apologize for what happened back there.”

  She looked at him with a half puzzled, half amused look on her face. “Why? You have nothing to apologize for. What happened up there is nothing more unusual than any of the many other things Mr. Martin has requested of me during my tenure here. You will receive what he has requested you receive by tomorrow morning.”

  Her matter-of-fact reply struck Bolan as a bit odd. “Nevertheless, I feel like I kind of put you on the spot there.”

  “How so? By requesting that I be present to assist you with your work for us?”

  He had to acknowledge that she had a point. “Yes, that meal was definitely work.”

  “There you go. And like I said, that was nothing new. I could tell you stories about other times...” She glanced back at the upper floors of the building, as if afraid Martin might somehow overhear their conversation, then smiled. “But I won’t, of course. Confidentiality, you know.”

  “Of course.” The SUV to take him back to his hotel pulled up and Bolan gestured to it. “Do you need a lift home?”

  “Thank you again, however, I drove myself.” She indicated the nearby exit to the underground parking garage. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning at 8:00 a.m. We’ll have the security meeting, and then be leaving from the rooftop helipad at 9:00 a.m.”

  “I’ll be there,” Bolan replied.

  “All right, then good night,” Tate said and started walking back toward the garage.

  “Are you ready to go, sir?” Only one bodyguard stood near the vehicle, and he didn’t look like he was armed. At least Bolan couldn’t see a telltale bulge. Apparently the powers that be deemed one unarmed man to be adequate for Bolan’s return trip to his hotel.

  “Not quite yet.” Bolan looked past him at the protestors. “Give me a few minutes.”

  “As you wish,” the man replied. “Although if you’re thinking of confronting those guys, I’d be careful, mate—they can work themselves up into a right frenzy over the company.”

  “Then I’ll be sure to talk to them politely,” he replied over his shoulder as he started walking toward the group. They began chanting more loudly as he approached, practically yelling by the time he got to the other side of the road and stepped onto the sidewalk.

  “No more coal, no more oil! Keep your carbon in the soil!”

  He held up his hands. “Hey—hey, just give me a moment. I just want to talk!”

  At first he thought his voice had been drowned out by the chant, but then one of the people, a black man who looked to be in his midthirties, with tortoiseshell glasses and hair done in several thick twists, raised a hand and the rest of the chanters, a mix of younger people, black and white, slowly subsided. They still looked tense, as if expecting trouble, but Bolan got the sense that they weren�
�t about to come at him out of hand.

  “Exactly what did you want to talk about?” the man asked.

  “Did any of you hear about the incident on the freeway near the airport?” Bolan replied.

  The man nodded, along with several others in the group.

  “I just wanted to know if your group—the AFN, I assume?—was behind it,” Bolan said.

  “Why?” the man asked. “Who are you?”

  “Because I was in the car when it happened, and I saw a man almost get killed during the attack, as well.” As he said that, Bolan watched the various group members, looking for a reaction. There was nothing obvious, but several of them appeared concerned at least.

  The twist-haired man stared at Bolan. “If you knew anything about the AFN, you would know that we would never resort to that kind of violence, especially against other people. There are much more effective ways to effect change.”

  Bolan nodded. “I agree. Look, for what it’s worth, I’m not a WN employee. I’m a contractor, an environmental engineer, hired to try to find a more peaceful way of resolving the differences between them—” he jerked a thumb back at the WN skyscraper “—and your group.”

  Now the man frowned. “That’s funny...you don’t look like an engineer.”

  Bolan frowned in return and looked down at himself, dressed in navy slacks, a white button-down shirt and a houndstooth blazer. “Oh? What does an engineer typically look like?”

  The man shook his head. “Oh, I’m not talking about—” he gestured to Bolan’s body “—your physical appearance. I’m referring to your inner self.” He pointed at the center of Bolan’s chest. “Your soul.”

  Bright lights shone from behind Bolan and he glanced around to see a modest, two-door, white Kia sedan exit the garage. As it drew closer, he saw Cindra Tate behind the wheel. She pulled up to the driveway exit and waited for the traffic to pause so she could get out.

  He turned back to the man. “And what does my soul look like?”

  “It looks like the soul of a person who takes direct action, not one who waits for the slow processes of society, government and the law to work.” The man regarded him for a long moment. “The actions you take would be condemned by many, but there are those, yourself included, who feel that they are necessary, and so you choose to do them regardless of what others may say. You do not take joy in these actions, but you do take pride in them. You believe that you are doing a good thing for others who cannot do these actions, and the world as a whole.”

  Bolan stared at him for a long moment. “You said I choose to do them. What makes you think I have a choice?”

  Another glare of headlights coming on caught his attention and his eyes flicked to the right, where an SUV was parked a block down the street. An engine throttled up behind him and Bolan knew Cindra was pulling out into the road. A few seconds later the SUV, a large, silver model with a red symbol on the grille he didn’t recognize, pulled out and drove down the road after her.

  “Everybody always has a choice,” the man replied. “Free will is what makes each of us the unique humans that we are.”

  Slightly interested—even though he didn’t give any credence to this sort of hippy BS, and figured the man was just skilled at cold reading people—and still wanting to continue his conversation, Bolan glanced at the SUV, its taillights disappearing into the night. Just like on the freeway, his combat senses were pinging him about that vehicle.

  He turned to the man. “I have to go, but I’d like to ask you a few more questions.”

  “About us...or about yourself?” the man asked.

  “Might be a bit of both,” Bolan admitted.

  “Either way, I’m usually here,” the man said. “Come by anytime.”

  “I will.” Bolan started to leave then stuck out his hand. “Matt Cooper.”

  The man took it, his grip warm and firm. “Koa Early.”

  Bolan trotted back to the SUV and its driver. “Let’s go, but not to the hotel. Follow that silver SUV that’s behind Ms. Tate.”

  The driver/bodyguard looked oddly at him. “You want me to do what?”

  Bolan was already in the passenger seat. “You heard me. Follow that SUV.”

  With a shrug of his massive shoulders, the man got back into the SUV, a roomy, dark blue Mazda CX-9, and pulled out into traffic. At this hour, it had lightened somewhat, but there were still plenty of vehicles on the street.

  “You actually think Ms. Tate is in trouble?” the man asked as he navigated the slow-moving cars and trucks along Queens Bridge Street. A spatter of raindrops hit the windshield and he hit the wipers to clear them.

  “Not sure, but better safe than sorry,” Bolan replied. “If I’m wrong, then I’ve just taken you on a wild-goose chase for a few kilometers.”

  “All right, you’re the boss.”

  “Is this thing armored?”

  The driver nodded. “Up to .357 rounds on the body and the windshield’s supposed to stop a 5.56 mm. Of course, if they are armed with rifles, we’re probably royally screwed, mate.”

  Bolan didn’t reply; he just nodded.

  They followed the two vehicles for another fifteen minutes, leaving the business section of the city entirely, and headed northeast into what seemed like a more suburban part of the city. Skyscrapers gave way to smaller two-and three-story buildings, interspersed with freestanding shops and even houses and apartment buildings. The rain started coming down a little harder, although it seemed to come in irregular waves, with sudden pockets drenching them then letting up just as quickly.

  Tate pulled into a gas station and got out to fill up her car. The silver SUV pulled up to the pump behind her, with the person in the passenger seat getting out, as well.

  Bolan’s driver pulled into the parking area, but found himself having to maneuver around a fuel truck pulling out next to them. For a few moments their line of sight on those two pumps was blocked.

  “Come on, come on...” Bolan muttered as the truck slowly creeped forward. He thought he heard a familiar crackling sound, even over the rumble of the semi. When it finally pulled out, he saw Tate’s car still there, but she wasn’t visible.

  “Stay here and keep it running,” Bolan told his driver as he opened his door.

  “Wait, what? Where are you going?” the driver asked.

  “I’ll be right back.” Bolan got out, quietly closed the door then walked to the back of his SUV. Tate’s car was still at the pump. The other SUV was behind it, the engine idling.

  Keeping the pumps between him and the driver of the unknown SUV, Bolan approached it from the rear, careful to stay out of sight of the side mirror. He was close enough now to hear what sounded like a struggle or argument, and that made him move more quickly to the back of the SUV.

  He peeked around the corner to see Tate struggling with another woman. She jabbed something into Tate’s side and that loud crackling noise sounded again. The redhead went limp in the other woman’s arms.

  “Hey!” Bolan yelled as he started to run toward them. But he hadn’t even taken two steps when the driver’s door of the SUV opened. A man swung out holding a gun with a sound suppressor threaded onto the barrel. He pointed the weapon at him.

  Chapter Eleven

  There was nowhere to go but down.

  Bolan dived to the damp, oil-stained ground and rolled under the SUV as the man squeezed the trigger, the suppressed report a soft chug among the nighttime traffic, but not immediately so obvious as to draw attention.

  The Executioner kept rolling as fast as he could, knowing if he stopped for even a moment he was a dead man. Even with the vehicle’s higher than average ground clearance, there was barely enough room to avoid the still-hot exhaust pipe. He reached the other side and scooted back behind the right rear tire as another bullet ricocheted off the concrete base of the gas pumps.

 
“I got her, let’s go!” the woman shouted from Tate’s car.

  Bolan saw the man’s feet disappear as he climbed into the SUV and started the engine. With the driver armed, the soldier couldn’t risk jumping inside the vehicle try to stop him, so he jumped across the island and ran for the other SUV, which was already pulling up to him.

  “I heard it, I heard it!” the driver said, flooring the gas pedal as Bolan leaped into the passenger seat.

  “There are at least two of them!” he said. “A woman is driving Cindra’s car and the SUV behind it is running interference.”

  “Well, they’re gonna be in for a rude surprise,” the driver said as he pulled out his smartphone and spoke into it. “Bert Williams, employee number 468231D, day code persimmon.” Whatever he’d activated, it made his screen flash red repeatedly.

  “After the recent troubles, the higher-ups at WN installed this panic button program, coded to our voiceprints, company IDs and passwords,” Williams said. “It’ll bring any on-duty security forces right down on my location, no matter where I am.”

  “Well, that’s helpful, but since we’re at least fifteen minutes away from HQ, they’re not going to get here for a while, so we need to stop that woman, or at least prevent her from taking Cindra.”

  They had caught up to the rear of the big SUV, which swerved wildly back and forth as the driver did his best to keep the Bolan’s vehicle from ramming him.

  “You got weapons in here?” Bolan asked.

  “Of course!” Williams pressed a button on his key fob and the glove compartment fell open, revealing a deep compartment with a 5.7 mm FN P-90 submachine gun strapped inside. “Do you know how to...” He trailed off as Bolan grabbed the compact weapon, loaded it and then chambered a round.

  As he lowered the passenger window, he told Williams, “Fall back a bit. I’ll try to take out his tire.”

  The silver SUV was still slaloming back and forth on the fortunately deserted road. Bolan leaned his head and shoulders out enough to brace himself on the bottom edge of the window. He took careful aim at the left rear tire, knowing he’d be better off laying down a field of fire and having the SUV swerve into it than trying to hit it dead-on. Steady...steady—