Pirate Offensive

by Don Pendleton

  Miguel pulled out his wallet and tucked it between his teeth, then gave a nod.

  Putting the ribs roughly back into place was pure guesswork for Bolan, but his years as a combat medic helped, and soon Miguel was breathing much easier.

  “Colonel,” the man panted. “You are...the worst medic...I’ve ever...seen.”

  “Still the best in the boat,” said Bolan, inspecting the remains of the duct tape. “Just don’t start bleeding internally, and we’ll get you back home.”

  “Major, Colonel, perhaps we should use the motor to get away from our toothy friends,” the woman suggested, peering nervously into the water. The knife was in her hand, ready for throwing.

  “That’s not a good idea, Quanita.” Bolan said.

  “They’re much faster than us, and we only have about fifty gallons of fuel.”

  “Qua?”

  “Roughly two hundred liters,” Major Cortez translated. “Not much.

  “No. We’ll row for now and save the engine for an emergency,” Bolan said.

  Waving at the corpses and the sharks, Quanita broke into a ragged laugh. “This is not?”

  Looking across the horizon, Bolan still saw no sign of the Constitution or the trawlers. But there were dark clouds coming their way. It could be more mist, perfect for replenishing their water supply and cooling them down. Or it could be a squall, racing in to hammer the lifeboat into kindling, giving the sharks the meal they wanted. The fins were still cutting the surface, circling endlessly.

  “No, this is not an emergency yet,” Bolan replied.

  * * *

  THE SECOND DAY at sea was the same as the first. Rowing, sleeping, half rations, awkward jokes about the pirates and the sharks. The horizon remained clear, which was a relief and an annoyance at the same time.

  On the third day, the sharks departed.

  On the fourth day, Bolan broke out a tiny bar of saltwater soap. Using different sides of the lifeboat, everybody stripped and washed. The MRE food packs tasted better after that.

  On the fifth day, with the solar battery of the satellite phone fully charged, the major started calling for help.

  The Bermuda Triangle was not that large an area, with most of the inhabited islands to the north and west. If they stayed on a north-by-northwest course, he didn’t doubt they would be rescued. Afterward...well, that would all depend upon who found them.

  Night came as abruptly on the open sea as did the dawn. The evening meal was eaten with little conversation and almost no joking. Bolan was starting to feel exhausted from the endless rowing and the meager food. If they were out here much longer, they’d be in serious risk of running out of supplies. Along with that fact, the knife wound in Quanita’s leg was starting to smell. If she got gangrene, Bolan knew they would have to remove the limb. He also knew that her chances of surviving that kind of meatball surgery were pretty damn close to zero.

  A crescent moon rose into the sky, the stars twinkling brightly. Then everybody held their breath at the unexpected throb of a helicopter engine.

  “Did the pirates have any helicopters?” asked Lieutenant Esteele nervously, lowering the oars.

  “None that I saw,” said Bolan, squinting at the approaching formation of lights. The machines were still too far away to make any kind of an identification, but they were big, and there were three of them.

  “Hello...hello?” shouted Major Cortez into the satellite radio. “Can you hear me?”

  A voice replied in another language.

  “That’s Portuguese!” Quanita cried. “These must be Brazilians!”

  “Anybody speak the language?” asked Miquel, pulling out the flare gun.

  Nobody did.

  With a shrug, the man pointed the flare gun straight upward and pulled the trigger. A sizzling charge rocketed high into the sky, paused, then exploded in a blazing fireball.

  The incoming helicopters spread out and began to descend.

  “Attack formation?” Major Cortez asked.

  “Rescue formation,” Bolan replied, then he frowned. “Your group—the Ghost Jaguars—are you wanted in Brazil for anything? Smuggling, kidnapping?”

  “Of course not. We have nothing to do with the crazy East Coasters,” snorted Lieutenant Esteele, removing his empty gun belt and easing it over the side of the craft. It sank without a splash. “But it might be better if we appear like victims rather than hunters, eh?”

  “Smart,” said Bolan, removing his own gun belt and passing it over to the major. “Now, I did have some trouble with the Brazilian secret police a few years ago—”

  “The SNI?” gasped Cortez. “But that shouldn’t be a problem. They don’t exist anymore.”

  “Officially,” added Bolan. “Better tie me up. Say you found me with the pirates. You’re not sure if I’m one of them or not.”

  “Yes, of course, to buy you some time,” muttered the major. “Colonel, I do apologize for this.”

  “Do it,” Bolan said.

  Lightning fast, the major lashed out with the Desert Eagle, slapping Bolan hard across the face. The man reeled from the blow and dropped flat in the lifeboat just as the searchlights of the helicopters audibly crashed into operation. All three of the machines were older-model Blackhawks, but each bore the insignia of the Brazilian Coast Guard.

  Soon, the hot wash of the turbo-blades was churning the surface of the sea into a stinging white froth, and the Ghost Jaguars began shouting and waving joyfully. Bolan tried to look sullen, even started to go over the gunwale. Lieutenant Esteele grabbed him by the collar and dragged him back into the boat.

  The side hatch of one Hawk slid open, and a team of men in wet suits jumped into the water. Staying inside the chopper, a woman shouted something in Portuguese over a bullhorn. The major shrugged and shouted back in Spanish. The doctor frowned, then nodded in understanding and began relaying instructions into a throat microphone.

  In only a few minutes, everybody was safe onboard one of the Blackhawks, the rebels wrapped in blankets and drinking hot coffee. Bolan was in handcuffs. Everything he had was taken away, including the biometric key.

  He’d need every trick in the book to escape from the Brazilian military or, worse, the dreaded SNI. But there was nothing he could do at the moment except settle in for a long trip.

  Chapter 6

  Washington, DC

  “Sir, we have a problem,” Hal Brognola said into the phone.

  “Is this about Angola?” the President asked.

  “No, sir, Key West. Maxwell Industries.”

  “Were the files taken?” the President asked.

  “No files, blueprints or data sticks were taken, sir. More’s the pity.”

  Brognola filled him in on the attack at the laboratory and the stolen microchips.

  “My God,” the President said. “The entire building...how many people were killed?”

  “Fifty-seven of our technicians and scientists,” Brognola reported. “Along with seventeen locals—police, firefighters, EMTs.”

  “The terrorists shot the paramedics?”

  “Before they got out of the ambulances,” Brognola stated grimly. “Except for one—an Allison Condel, EMT, no known weapons training. She got off a full magazine from a cop’s Glock.”

  “Hit anybody?”

  “Unknown. But my best guess would be yes. There was a boat at sea—it fired back almost immediately with a barrage of rockets.”

  The President sighed. “Okay, the thieves got a load of warhead chips. Now, there’ve got old weapons...but with state-of-the-art guidance systems.”

  “For a very short range,” Brognola said. “The chips aren’t perfect.”

  “Still, this seems to be a clear and present danger to the nation,” the President said. “Hal, is Striker on
the job?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Brognola. “He was already after the thieves when they made this unexpected detour to Key West.”

  “Good. Anything we can do to assist?”

  “No, Sir, the colonel...” Brognola paused here to stress the lack of a name. They both knew who they were really talking about. “...works best alone.”

  “Against an entire pirate organization?”

  “My money would still be on him, sir. But I do believe that he has acquired some associates this time.”

  “Who?”

  “Also unknown. Striker likes to keep things quiet.”

  The President chuckled. “Quiet? Sure, until he drops from the sky to rattle the pillars of heaven.”

  “And hell, sir,” Brognola added. “The colonel always brings along a good supply of that, too.”

  Brazilian Air Space

  AN UNKNOWN LENGTH of time had passed when Bolan suddenly snapped awake. Instinctively, his hands shot forward in a choke hold, only to stop a scant inch away from Major Cortez.

  “The bird is ours,” she whispered, pressing a key into his palm.

  That took a moment. As Bolan unlocked his handcuffs, he saw the Brazilian officers securely bound with duct tape on the bunks of the medical bay. Outside the windows, he saw only clear blue sky. Then the other two Blackhawk helicopters rose into view, flanking them.

  “This will get you into a lot of trouble,” Bolan stated, feeling a rare rush of pride and gratitude.

  “When are we not?” The major laughed, passing over a holstered automatic.

  It was a Brazilian Taurus PT101 .40 automatic. “Anybody hurt?” Bolan asked, dropping the magazine to check the load. All standard military rounds, solid lead, nothing fancy or explosive.

  Sitting at the controls, Lieutenant Esteele gave a guttural laugh. “Ha. I have slit the throats of armed soldiers during tank battles. These medics fall like children for the simplest tricks.”

  “Nobody was harmed,” added Quanita, riffling through a thick wad of colorful money. “They may not know who we are,” she continued. “But they do seem to know you, eh?”

  Strapping on the automatic, Bolan admitted again that he’d had some business with the SNI, the former secret police of Brazil, now known as the Agência Brasileira de Inteligência, or ABIN.

  “We do not like them very much either,” Major Cortez added. “But then, most Brazilians do not like them at all. There is a phrase, I do not know the origin—”

  “Absolute power corrupts absolutely?”

  The lieutenant laughed. “Something like that.”

  “So, what’s the plan?” Bolan asked, strapping on the weapon and adjusting the belt. He also had two spare magazines and a folding knife tucked into a sheath at the back.

  “We stay in formation, start to land, then throw open the hatch and run away shouting and screaming,” stated Major Cortez, leaning closer. “You hop out, firing your gun, and we scatter in fear.”

  Bolan snorted. “Fear?”

  “Yes. But the base police will have to chase everybody, which will give you a chance to escape.”

  “In the meantime, I fly away, stealing us this lovely helicopter,” added Lieutenant Esteele, reaching up to throw a row of switches. “She is not a gunship, but saving lives is almost as good, eh?”

  “That depends on the life,” Bolan said, looking around the helicopter. “Any sign of that cell phone or the biometric key?”

  “No, they managed to get those into another helicopter before we took over,” Lieutenant Esteele said, angling the Blackhawk sharply to the right. “One captain seemed most interested in them.”

  As well he should be, Bolan thought dourly. Now Bolan had a goal. When they landed, the captain would stay as far away from the shooting as possible, unwilling to lose or damage the phone and key.

  “Any chance anybody knows the layout of the naval rescue station?” asked Bolan.

  “Yes and no,” Major Cortez replied, reaching into her shirt pocket and producing a crumbled map. “One of the medicos must’ve been new and had this in his kit.”

  Spreading out the paper, Bolan started committing the layout of the base to memory.

  “You may need this,” Quanita added, dividing the stack of cash and passing some over. “These big cities are very expensive!”

  “So I hear,” Bolan said as he tucked the money into his shirt.

  A few hours later, the lead Blackhawk swung wide around a series of small islands, and the coastline of Brazil came into view. The city of Rio de Janeiro rose abruptly from the white sand beach, flanked by the majestic Sugarloaf Mountain.

  “We’re approaching the base,” Lieutenant Esteele said, putting a hand over the microphone. “The moment they discover that I am not the pilot, all hell will break loose.”

  “I’m ready,” Bolan answered, hunching his shoulders.

  * * *

  AS THE HELICOPTER lowered toward the tarmac, Bolan threw open the hatch and jumped. He hit the ground running. For a long moment, only empty pavement stretched ahead of him, as endless as a frozen black sea. Bolan thought of nothing but putting as much distance between himself and the Blackhawks as possible. Time was not on his side. Only speed and surprise. Until the alarm sounded, he could be doing anything—delivering a vital message, dashing for desperately needed medical supplies, anything..

  Soon he was approaching low buildings, rows of parked helicopters, planes, transports and finally the distant shimmer of a hurricane fence.

  He heard the Blackhawk touch down behind him, the propellers cutting out.

  “Help! Escaping prisoner!” Major Cortez yelled.

  Bolan stole a backward glance and saw her running in the opposite direction. Seconds later, the rest of the Ghost Jaguars poured onto the tarmac, wildly shooting their stolen weapons into the air, shouting different warnings. Almost instantly, an alarm began to hoot.

  As Bolan turned back around, the guards in a kiosk ahead of him stepped into view and fired warning shots. The angle of their weapons was wrong for a kill, the rounds going high. But Bolan knew that would change fast. Nobody was exactly sure what was happening, primarily because of the language differences. The mix of Portuguese and Spanish would help confuse things but not for very long.

  Concentrating on moving fast, Bolan banished everything else from his mind. If he failed or stumbled now, he’d go to jail and probably never see the light of day again.

  The guards fired again, and a Blackhawk flashed overhead, dangerously close. The turbo-wash slammed Bolan to the ground. He rolled and came back up still running. The kiosk guards, however, had not been braced for the aerial assault and tumbled like duckpins.

  Reaching the access gate, Bolan blew off the lock and hit the frame at full speed. It bent, but just for a moment it seemed as if the gate would not yield. Then the metal links snapped like fireworks and he was through. The bank was steep, and Bolan fell more than ran down the slope and charged into the ragged woods. Woods, not jungle. This was the civilized part of Brazil. Which was exactly what he had been counting on.

  Staying low, Bolan charged along a culvert until he found a sewer drain. The awful smell alone told him what it was. There was no grate, just an open spill pipe. Forging into the darkness, Bolan extended both hands to keep constant contact with the slimy walls. The muck underfoot was foul beyond belief, and tiny red eyes glared at him as he kept running.

  After covering some distance, Bolan touched a ladder and jerked to a stop, quickly climbing upward. Something was on top of the manhole cover, making it immovable. Probably a car tire. He crawled back down to find another exit. The next two covers were the same, sealed tight. But finally Bolan found a cover that moved. It was heavy but not locked. Putting his shoulders to task, Bolan exhorted every ounce of strength that he had, and the lid sl
id aside with a coarse, grinding noise.

  Glancing through the half-moon crack he’d created, Bolan was relieved to see this was a parking lot. He was under a large vehicle of some kind, a 4x4, maybe, or a mini-bus. More importantly, he had just enough room to get out. Sometimes, it was better to be lucky than smart.

  The space was cramped, and several of the greasy fittings ripped holes in his clothing, but Bolan managed to squeeze out of the sewer and crawl onto dry pavement. He used his legs to force the lid back into place and crept into the sunlight.

  Staying low, Bolan removed the spare tire from a nearby VW Bug, then slid it on top of the manhole cover. The gag wouldn’t fool anybody for long, especially not the police, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.

  In the distance, sirens were howling. He heard a brief flurry of machine gun fire and dogs barking.

  Starting to feel pressed for time, Bolan took a fast glance around to get the lay of the land. The parking lot was angled around large patches of grass and trees—picnic areas for off-duty personnel, he supposed. Beyond the bushes ran a steady stream of traffic, including all sorts of different cars, mopeds and motorcycles.

  Bolan stepped through the bushes and hailed a cab. The driver looked at Bolan suspiciously, then saw the cash in his hand and shrugged.

  “Hyatt,” Bolan said, knowing there was a Hyatt Hotel near the downtown of just about every city.

  The driver sped away, weaving expertly through the morning traffic. But after only a few blocks, Bolan stuffed some cash through the tip slot and asked the driver to pull over near a construction site. In the distance, he could see the Naval Rescue Station. Several helicopters were moving about like a cloud of angry hornets, but none of them were coming this way. So far, so good.

  Locating the duty shack, Bolan grabbed a shovel from an unattended stack of dirty tools and shuffled inside, trying to appear like a man fresh off a long shift. Which was not very far from the truth at this point.

  He spied a row of lockers in the back of the shack. Bolan rummaged through them until he found some civilian clothing relatively close to his size. As payment, he left behind his remaining cash.