Pirate Offensive

by Don Pendleton

  Deep inside the mansion, fifty people were eating dinner at a single cherry wood table, polished to a shine. It was oval shaped, with the top end flattened, a place of honor for the oldest living member of the group.

  Huge fires crackled inside four granite hearths, and in the next room a live orchestra was playing Chopin. Also in the dining hall was a powerful scrambler that would make it impossible for anyone to record a conversation in the room.

  Everybody present was elegantly dressed. The settings were fine bone China and actual silverware. Crystal chandeliers blazed brightly overhead, and more armed guards stood quietly in the corners.

  These were the elite of Albania, the top members of the Fifteen Families, the criminals who secretly ruled the entire nation.

  The meal was simple tonight, nothing special—roasted quail, lobster, Beluga caviar over ice cream for dessert. The wines came from around the world.

  During the soup course, from somewhere outside a man screamed vile obscenities and a rock bounced off one of the stained glass windows. Rather, it bounced off the thick sheet of bulletproof Lexan plastic just outside the stained glass. A long chatter of machine gun fire responded from the rooftop, followed by the howl of dogs and then a piercing scream of pain that ended abruptly. Nobody at the table paid the incident any concern.

  “How are sales of meth progressing in Angola, Uncle?” asked a young girl still in her teens.

  “As well as can be expected,” the old man sighed. “The problem is finding chemists who can do the job.”

  “Can we hire some from India?”

  “Not enough. Too many better paying jobs elsewhere.”

  “Anything we can do about that?”

  “Working on it,” he muttered, clearly annoyed.

  With a jerk, another man looked up from his meal. “Did we ever get those blackmail photos?”

  “Acquired and burned, and that annoying French news reporter is dead,” said the old man at the top of the table. “Now, can we please talk about something other than business?”

  A long moment of awkward silence followed.

  “Anybody getting married?” the old man asked hopefully. “Divorced? Having a baby?”

  Suddenly, a liveried servant charged into the dining hall. Holding a cell phone, he glanced about in harried confusion, then straightened his shoulders and marched directly to the head of the table. “Call for you, sir,” he stated, his hand quaking.

  “During a meal?” the old man growled, arching a snowy-white eyebrow.

  “You’ll want this call, sir,” the servant said, pressing the phone into his hand.

  Glaring at the servant as if the man had just lost his mind, Dominic “The Axe” Dorvorka took the device. “Hello?”

  “I’m free, Grandpa!” said Svekta in a rush. “Come get me!”

  “Who is this again?” the old man demanded suspiciously.

  “Svekta, you fat old snowman! I’m still on Sazan Island, but I’m loose in the forest. Send the military...send everybody, and get me out of here!”

  “At once, sweet child,” Dorvorka said soothingly, the knuckles on his hand going bone white. “But first...where did your grandmother always hide my whiskey?”

  With that odd question, silence swept across the table.

  “In the kennel. If you wanted to drink like a dog...”

  “...then I could get flies. Oh, dear girl, it is you,” the old man sighed. “Where are you hiding, child?”

  “In the old Soviet bunkers on the west side of the island. Last place the pirates should look for me.”

  “The first, I’d say,” he countered angrily. “Are you strong enough to try to swim for Goat Island?”

  “No, they...the pirates had me on drugs. I’m too weak to even try. I need sleep.”

  “Fine, accepted. Then stay in the bunkers. Is there a number?”

  “Can’t see...the light from the cell phone is not strong enough.”

  “Are you armed?”

  “Of course. M16 carbine, twenty rounds.”

  “Excellent, child. Well done. Do not worry, we will find you.” With a snap of his wrist, the old man closed the phone then put two fingers into his mouth and cut loose with a shrill whistle. “Svekta is free and hiding in the old Soviet bunkers. I want my granddaughter back within the hour!”

  “Excellent!” squealed a young girl with pigtails. “How did she escape?”

  “Unknown at the moment,” he said with a tolerant smile. “And not relevant. She’s out and this is our best chance to get her back alive...and then send Narmada to hell.”

  “Let’s send in the submarines,” said an enormously fat man, his tattersall vest bulging.

  “Both of them?” a middle-aged woman with platinum hair asked. “Doesn’t that leave our own harbor vulnerable to an attack?”

  “By whom, Gloria?

  “By law,” added a young man. “It also requires a presidential command.”

  “Bah, we own the president,” said the fat man. He paused. “Who is the president this year? The little fat man, or the skinny fellow with the mustache?”

  Another member of the family shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  “No, not really,” said the matronly woman, toying with a diamond pendant.

  “How about helicopters?” added a pretty woman, thoughtfully checking her fingernails. “We have hundreds, don’t we?”

  The matronly woman scowled in disapproval. “No, the police and the military have hundreds. And besides, they aren’t armed.”

  “Why in God not?”

  “So they can not be used against us.”

  “Don’t we have any that are armed?”

  “Of course! But they stay on the helipad on the roof. In case of trouble.”

  “All right, enough dicking around. Send in the jets,” declared a burly, tattooed man, cracking his knuckles. “We have several MiG-15 fighters in the warehouse, and they can fly within the hour. Without his hostage, we can bomb the holy shit out of that fat fuck!”

  “A lovely sentiment. However, we can’t rescue our niece in a jet,” noted a younger man, his empty left sleeve pinned neatly to his tuxedo jacket.

  At the head of the table, Dominic Dorvorka scowled in barely controlled rage. Damn it, that was true. The situation was intolerable. Either the Fifteen had too much firepower or not enough. They had never planned, or even seriously considered, a rescue mission before. They maintained power through fear, torture and intimidation. Rarely did they ever need to recover somebody alive.

  “Gunboats,” said a young teenager. “We have the Braveheart and the ThunderKing.”

  “Chinese gunboats,” said the bald man in a dismissive manner.

  “Heavily armed Chinese gunboats,” corrected the skinny man sternly. “The best we could legally buy. Shanghai II class, with more than enough firepower to attack Narmada’s base.”

  “But the crew has never been in a fight. Just war games.”

  “Well, now is the time for them to learn!”

  “I’m sure our brave sailors would do their best,” Dominic said flatly. “But with the life of a Family member on the line? You really want them lobbing about missiles and shells indiscriminately?”

  Loosening his necktie, a middle-aged man raised a finger. “Excuse me, but aren’t we...I mean Albania...aren’t we technically a part of NATO?”

  “Are you suggesting that we call Brussels to clean up our mess?” Dominic began with a dour frown, but then it changed into a wide grin. “That’s brilliant! Why should we risk any more Family members when NATO will do the job and bear the cost, and we get our Svekta back?”

  “NATO is not run by fools, Grandfather,” stated a young woman wearing dark glasses and holding a white cane tightly in her gloved hands. “They will ask for
something in return. A larger base in the capital city, less stringent control of the schools or newspapers...”

  “Then we pay it, and gladly!” the old man stormed, spittle flying from his mouth. “We’re talking about blood here, not business. Get Svekta back at any cost!”

  “And what about Narmada?” asked the teenaged boy.

  “If NATO happens to capture him alive....” Dominic said slowly, warming to the idea. “Then I have some of our people already inside the Hague to greet him properly.”

  Sazan Island

  LEAVING THE CELL, Bolan went through the dead guard’s key ring until he found the one for the door. He coated it with superglue, then slid it into the lock and twisted hard, snapping it off at the bow. That would buy Svekta some time. Not much, but hopefully enough.

  Proceeding swiftly along the corridor, Bolan turned a corner and encountered a guard. The two men blinked in surprise at each other, then each went for a weapon. Bolan won and stashed the body in an electrical closet. Then he added a C4 charge to the main junction box on the wall. Darkness and chaos inside the pirate base would only help him track down Narmada.

  Bolan continued on for quite awhile, planting C4 charges inside a water pumping station and a weapons closet packed with AK-47 assault rifles and a lot of ammunition. He didn’t encounter any other guards. Odd.

  Suddenly, Bolan realized where all of the pirates must be at this time of the day. Not in their barracks or the galley, but onboard the Constitution, their new flagship.

  Or whatever Narmada was calling the warship now, Bolan thought. Owner’s prerogative.

  Moving fast down the empty corridor, Bolan went right past a watertight hatch set into the wall. Then his mind flashed, and he went right back. A watertight hatch in the middle of a corridor? That made no sense at all...unless.... No, he could not possibly be that lucky.

  Checking both directions, Bolan holstered his Beretta and tried the wheel lock. It resisted at first, so he added a spray of lubricant from his equipment belt. This time, Bolan put his back into the task. The wheel resisted again, then snapped loudly and spun freely. Carefully opening the hatch, Bolan peered through and saw an old rusty ladder descending into total blackness.

  With high hopes, he turned on his night vision goggles, eased through the tight oval, closed the hatch and started downward. Minutes later, his boots found a metal floor.

  Bolan drew the Beretta again and swept the area for targets. Determining the area was clear, he spotted another watertight oval, this one bearing the hammer and sickle of the Soviet Union.

  This hatch proved tougher than the first, and Bolan needed all of the remaining lubricant on both the lock and the recessed hinges to twist it open.

  Holding his breath, he braced for a hot outpouring of retched fumes. But there only came the soft flow of old air shifting positions. Better and better.

  Bolan stepped through and found himself standing inside the dank recesses of an old Soviet diesel submarine. Back before the communists went broke trying to keep up with America, they attempted everything possible to save a few bucks, especially for the military. These subs had been one of their better ideas. When a submarine got too old to fight anymore, it was more cost-effective to simply settle them at the bottom of a harbor, completely intact and fully operational. Then the Soviets would simply attach some power lines, air hoses, sewage and such and pour a couple thousand pounds of saltwater concrete on top of the vessel, sealing it there forever.

  For a mere pittance, the Soviets had just installed a fully armed and armored torpedo base. Incredibly, these makeshift forts were tremendously effective. Bolan knew of dozens of them placed at the bottom of every major harbor along the coastline of the defunct Soviet Empire. So it had not been too much of a stretch to find one down here at such a vital transfer point in the Mediterranean Sea.

  Clearly, Narmada did not know much Soviet history, or else this sub would have been manned. The big question was whether it still had any torpedoes. If so, Bolan could sink most of the pirate fleet right from here. Like shooting fish in a barrel.

  Thumbing a butane lighter alive to check the air, Bolan saw the tiny flame waver, then hold strong. Good enough. He peeled a faded map off the riveted steel wall, then did a fast sweep of the forgotten vessel. Soon, he knew the hard truth—the sub had been gutted by the crew when the Soviet Union collapsed. Several torpedoes sat in the forward launch bay, but each was a goddamn practice shot. Just about as deadly as a kid’s Nerf gun. Useless. Utterly useless.

  Bolan started to leave when a new thought occurred. Crazy? Sure, but when the crew abandoned this sunken vessel, they were primarily interested in hauling away equipment that could be sold for hard cash on the black market. So what about the stuff that could not be removed?

  It took Bolan less than an hour to find the four big torpedoes welded into the side of the hull. Working carefully, he checked the primers, batteries and warheads. Deactivated, but alive.

  Allowing himself a small smile, Bolan went back to the wrecked control room and started removing crude circuitry from the intercom and wall heaters. Ten minutes later, he had assembled a digital timer. It glowed into life, the light shining brightly in the dark confines.

  In forty-five minutes, the Soviet submarine was going to explode. The blast would be nowhere near powerful enough to do any significant damage to the Constitution floating on the surface, but the shockwave of shrapnel would tear the wooden fishing trawlers into kindling. In his mind, Bolan reviewed the possible reactions from Narmada and the pirates and heartily approved. There was no sense trying to track down a lion when you could make the beast come to you.

  Quickly leaving the ticking submarine, Bolan returned to the rusty ladder and climbed right past the first hatch. As expected, there was a ventilation grill at the top of the ladder. Checking his compass and his watch, Bolan made a combat decision and squeezed into the shaft.

  It took him quite a while to find this way back to the outside world again. Emerging from the vent, the man was not overly surprised to find the M16 carbine missing and then several armed guards lying sprawled among the laurel bushes. Most of them were shot in the back of the head from ambush. Bolan did not begrudge Svekta her revenge—he only hoped she had called the Fifteen Families to be rescued. With luck, they’d arrive just in time to help with the cleanup.

  A brief search for the Martin discovered the machine exactly where he had left it, stashed among the young white birches. The fuel level was incredibly low, almost off the scale. But hopefully Bolan now had a solution for that problem.

  Turning on the machine, Bolan twisted the controls to the maximum and quickly rose along the sloping mountain ridge. Although he knew the machine could turn itself off at any moment, Bolan maintained top speed, streaking along the crags until spotting a Quonset hut set off by itself, surrounded by the trucks he’d been following earlier.

  At the sound of the Martin, a guard looked up in surprise, and Bolan put two sizzling 9 mm Parabellum rounds directly into his throat. The startled man fell back into the bushes just as Bolan got over the barbed wire fence and the turbojets sputtered, then died. He dropped the last few yards, the impact onto the grass driving the air from his lungs.

  Dragging the jet pack over to a fuel pump, Bolan filled a bucket with standard truck fuel, then used the sewage hose to siphon the fluid into the Martin. It was a slow process, and Bolan had to stay alert for any additional guards on patrol. But it seemed as if everybody was down in the harbor marveling over their new acquisition.

  Floating serenely in the small harbor, the Constitution was now flying the Swiss flag and had been renamed The Eiger. Clever. Narmada did not miss a trick.

  Eventually the task was done, and the jet pack was refueled and ready to go. Bolan hid a couple C4 charges inside the pump, then strapped himself into the Martin and flew directly up the side of the mountain.


  Dawn was rapidly approaching by the time Bolan reached the top of the mountain. As he had hoped, there was a large flat area that served as a crude heliport. Perfect. When the Soviet sub exploded, Narmada would most likely try to escape the base and walk directly into Bolan’s sights.

  Several helicopters were parked on the flattened grass. Bolan decided to hide the Martin in the one place that nobody would ever look—underneath one of the Blackhawks.

  As he crawled back out from below the chopper, a soft sound made Bolan spin around with his gun out. A guard wearing a camouflage Ghillie suit was standing in the bushes. Both men fired together, the Beretta coughing its low song of death while the guard cut loose with a chattering AK-47 assault rifle.

  The 9 mm rounds flattened on the guard’s body armor, while the barrage of 7.62 mm rounds threw Bolan back toward the edge of the helipad and the yawning chasm that extended down to the distant harbor.

  Chapter 13

  SS Eiger

  The atmosphere was tense on the bridge of the warship even though the radar screen was clear, the luminous arms sweeping around and around, showing nothing coming toward the island base. The sea and air were empty, aside from a flock of seagulls to the north and two of their own trawlers on patrol heading east and west.

  “Four, three, two, one...and fire!” Captain Narmada, commanded, studying the electronic display screen.

  On a triptych of linked monitors, lights flashed and blinking dots appeared then disappeared.

  “Another failure,” growled Narmada. “Okay, what went wrong with the simulation this time?”

  Bent over the fire control board, First Officer Chung and Chief Mechanic Lucinda Daryple glanced nervously at each other.

  “I’ll take it from your silence that you don’t know either,” Narmada said, swinging around in his chair to face them directly.