Armed Response

by Don Pendleton

  Telephone man crossed the bridge, pointing an angry finger at Bolan’s face. He was taller than Grubby, who Bolan noticed was smirking, and better dressed, but the soldier still towered above him. He glared up at Bolan, who returned the stare.

  “Cousin say you not pay! If not pay, get off boat now!” The man was in a foul mood, spittle flying from his mouth.

  “No. I said that I would talk to the captain. Are you the captain?” Bolan kept his voice calm, quiet.

  “So, cousin is liar! You not pay, then say family is all liars! You off boat now! Now!” The man was all but screaming, shrill in his exclamations. Bolan could feel the situation slipping out of control. The other two bridge members were slowly approaching, spoiling for a fight. Grubby, in the background, was rubbing his hands together. Bolan reached into his pocket and removed a fifty-dollar bill. He waved it under the irate man’s nose.

  “I’ll give this to the captain and only the captain. If I have to leave, then fine. But it will have consequences.” He leaned in close, invading another man’s space for the second time in five minutes. “I know that my employers have already paid the Cape Faith's owners. I know that there was a generous bonus included for the captain.”

  He saw the crewmen’s heads snap around at that revelation. They hadn’t been aware of it. “When I disembark, I’ll phone my employers, who will then contact the owners to inform them of the breaking of the contract, something that we call theft. Then I’ll make another call, this one to the US Embassy. As a reporter, I’ll tell them that I learned the Cape Faith is smuggling drugs and weapons to terrorists. You can expect to be boarded by American soldiers the minute you leave Yemeni waters. They’ll impound your ship and arrest you for everything from piracy to tax evasion.”

  Bolan straightened. “Or that need not happen. I’ve already paid. This is a small gift for the captain. Perhaps he can buy a bottle of rum with it. Now, are you the captain?”

  The man was quiet for a moment, glowering at Bolan’s threat. Slowly his demeanor changed, the anger bleeding away, a farcical smile of delight spreading across his face. He stuck out his hand, keeping an eye on the fifty-dollar bill.

  “I am captain. Captain Abu. No need be angry. All friends here!” Abu waved his crew away. Grubby cursed and gave Bolan a vicious look before skulking away through a door in the bulkhead of the bridge.

  “Forgive anger. Bad day in office. Cousin lazy. Bad day, bad day. But I buy rum next time, we drink together!” Abu was still smiling as he pocketed the fifty dollars. “Come, come, good friend Mr. Balansky! I show you where you sleep.”

  Bolan didn’t bother to correct Abu on the mispronunciation of his cover name.

  The captain continued. “Thank you for travel on good ship Cape Faith. Bad business at airport, no? Many people go splat!” Abu led Bolan through the same door Grubby had disappeared through and down a ladder into the heart of the superstructure. The condition of the ship’s insides weren’t much better than its outsides. “Come, Mr. Balansky. You stay in fine cabin with nice lady. She is from Neverland. I have been to Neverland many, many times. Rotterdam is good, no? Good beer! You go to Rotterdam?”

  Bolan smiled. “I have been to the Netherlands. Rotterdam is a good place.”

  Abu reached a door and banged on it. “Mrs. Clapton,” he yelled. “Mrs. Clapton! You have visitor friend! Mrs. Clapton! Open up!”

  The metal door did open to reveal a woman. Her sharp eyes blazed contempt and indignation at Captain Abu. In her hand she held a hairbrush. She was either busy with her short curly brown hair, Bolan thought, or she was going to beat Abu with it. Abu beamed at her. Her expression did not alter.

  “What do you want now?” she demanded.

  “Mrs. Clapton! You have guest. My good friend Balansky. He stay with you in cabin!”

  The woman took a deep breath, and Bolan could see she was about to erupt. He was about to ask if there was another cabin, when the volcano exploded.

  “It is Clayton. Mrs. Clayton. And no! This is my cabin! Mine! I have paid for it. My organization paid for it. Now go away! Leave me alone, you pirate!” She hadn’t even glanced in Bolan’s direction, her eyes firmly fixed on Abu, who was still smiling inanely.

  “No, Mrs. Clapton! You pay for bed. For bunk. Not cabin. I throw my cousin and sailor out of here for you. Now Mr. Balansky also stay. You like him. He funny, make me laugh, always giving gifts. Now I go. We slip moorings. We sail for Djibouti. Just like cruise ship, yes?” Abu cheerfully sauntered off, leaving Mrs. Clayton staring angrily after him, making a growling noise behind clenched teeth, her knuckles white around the hairbrush.

  Slowly she directed her gaze to Bolan, who smiled disarmingly. He put her height at around five foot six and could see bright intelligence behind the burning fire in her eyes. He raised an eyebrow, indicating the cabin behind her with a jerk of his chin.

  “Maybe I could just stow my bag here,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ll stay out of your way as much as possible. And nothing will happen, believe me. I’m Mike Blanski.” He held out his right hand. Clayton stared at him, not giving ground. Bolan adjusted his hand, indicating that he wanted to shake hers. Finally she conceded, transferring the hairbrush to her left hand and shaking Bolan’s with her right.

  “Nancy Clayton,” she said.

  “Mike Blanski,” Bolan repeated. “May I?” He indicated the cabin.

  “Go ahead, be my guest, make yourself at home. It’s not like I have a lot of choice.” She stood aside, allowing Bolan to enter.

  The cabin was small, a bunk bed on the left, a metal desk and wardrobe on the right. Facing him was an open porthole, the noise and smells of the harbor pouring through it. The MV Cape Faith shuddered and began vibrating harder. He could hear shouting on the decks as the ship cast off, a small tug just visible outside. He placed his sports bag on the top bunk, noting that the lower one had been claimed.

  “I’d advise you to turn the mattress over,” Clayton said. “They aren’t very clean. I shudder to think how old they are. The captain’s cousin sleeps up there. I have never met a more repugnant creature.”

  “Ah, yes, Grubby. He doesn’t like me much.”

  “Ha! Grubby! Yes, that is a good name for him. Grubby. This whole ship is grubby.”

  “Your accent? Chicago? Abu said you were from the Netherlands.”

  “Abu is an idiot. I doubt he has his master’s license for this boat. But, yes, I was born and raised in Chicago. I live in Holland, working for a Dutch charity organization, Help Without Borders. You?”

  “Journalist. Freelance. Covering the famine on the Horn of Africa. How come you’re on board a ship? Isn’t that dangerous for a woman? I was always under the impression that you guys were flown everywhere.”

  “Huh! I didn’t want to be here, believe me. Our shipment of rice is on board. I was supposed to meet with colleagues in Djibouti after supervising the loading, making sure nothing accidently disappeared, but the airport is shut down, so I had to hitch a ride with the Misfits of the Caribbean. Not something I wanted to do. Yes, it could be dangerous. I’m not happy about it. I fully intended to lock the door and stay in here, no matter how hot it gets. Speaking of hot.” She tugged on her T-shirt, a vain attempt to circulate some air around her body. “Do you think they have any cooler rooms on board? The ship must have a freezer. What a sweatbox.”

  “Our rice?” Bolan inquired.

  “Yes, I work for a Dutch charity. Don’t ask. It’s a long story. Anyway, I’m supervising the delivery. I worked for other big organizations before this one, covered disaster relief in Indonesia, Haiti, Thailand, Somalia, which is why they thought it was a good idea to send me here to Djibouti. My husband and son are worried sick, what with the bombings there.”

  “Bombings?”

  “Yes, the bombings. There was a big one two days ago, car bomb outside a hotel where a lot of aid workers were staying. Where I was supposed to stay. Loads of people were killed. How can you be a journalist and not have heard o
f it?”

  “I’ve been busy,” Bolan said. He reached into his back pocket and removed his cell phone. He still had a connection with the local networks. They hadn’t cleared the harbor yet.

  “I’m just going to make a call. I’ll be back soon.”

  Bolan left Clayton in the cabin and proceeded up onto the main deck. He moved away from the busy area and worked his way to the counter deck at the stern of the ship where no crew members were present. He typed in the cutout number for Stony Man Farm and gripped the hot taffrail, hoping that the call would go through on his cheap cell phone. It took a little longer than usual, but he was connected through to the Annex Computer Room. Carmen Delahunt, a former FBI agent and now one of the top cyberwarriors for the Farm, answered.

  “Striker,” Bolan said as a way of greeting, speaking loudly over the noise of the engine. He put on his sunglasses to cover the intensity of the blue sea and sky. The harbor was trailing away in the wake of the ship, the MV Cape Faith marking her passage with a long stream of black funnel smoke.

  “Hi, what’s burning?” she said cheerily.

  “At the moment, I am. You apprised of the situation?”

  “Sure am. Got briefed just before the rest all went off to bed. What can I do you for?”

  “Two things. First give me a bare-bones rundown on one Nancy Clayton, formerly of Chicago, now resident in the Netherlands, working for Help Without Borders. Second, I just heard there was bomb blast in Djibouti yesterday. Am I walking into something I should know about?”

  “Hold on. I’ll check.” Bolan could hear keys clacking as Delahunt rapidly typed in the multiple queries. She came back on a minute later.

  “Okay, the bombing was at the Waverley Hotel. Seems it was a car bomb planted on a guest’s car. The guest, a French national, was killed along with his driver and four soldiers at the hotel checkpoint. Six aid workers for various charities were killed, along with a Danish journalist and nine hotel staff. Sixty people were injured, some seriously. The injured foreign nationals were moved to Lemonnier’s military hospital. The locals went to various hospitals in the city. Get this. One of the seriously injured was a CIA spook. Another spook was slightly injured.”

  “Anybody claim responsibility?”

  “Not as of yet, but the government is blaming FRUD, the Front for Restoration of Unity and Democracy. They signed a peace treaty with the government more than a decade ago, but it seems that the government is beating its chest and pointing fingers. The leaders of FRUD are denying all responsibility and are blaming the government for the carnage.”

  “Wonderful. Do I need to look into it?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll ask the boss when she wakes up. In the meantime you may soon have more pressing problems at sea.”

  “Yeah. And Clayton?”

  “Forty-four, a former teacher from a high school in a disadvantaged neighborhood in Chicago. Married and joined a large charity organization. Been to hot spots all around the world. Has one son, aged nine. Resident of the Netherlands for the past four years due to husband’s job. Specializes in communication and education. Changed from one charity organization to the current one. They were glad to have her, promoting her experience and success on their website. One of their highfliers. She seems to be aboveboard. Do you want me to dig deeper? Is she part of the mission?”

  “No, she’s a passenger on board. If the fireworks start, I’ll shut her in the cabin. Don’t bother digging deeper. My gut tells me she is who she says she is. I think my cell connection is about to go. I’ll be in contact soon.” Bolan broke off and returned the phone to his jeans pocket.

  On his way back to the cabin, he came across the galley. Nobody was in the room. All hands on deck, he supposed. A quick search of the cupboards turned up several plastic bottles of water, which he pilfered. He then navigated his way back to the cabin. The door was locked from the inside. He gave it a rap with his knuckles.

  “Who is it?”

  “Me. Mike.”

  There was a rattle, the door opened and there was Clayton, looking more disheveled than when he had left. He handed her one of the bottles of water to which she muttered a quick thanks before downing half of its contents. Bolan put the others in a locker, keeping one out for himself. He perched himself on the desk, taking several gulps of water. Clayton lay back on her bunk, groaning.

  “I hate boats,” she stated. “This one rattles and shakes like nothing I have ever experienced. If you close the porthole, then you suffocate. If you leave it open, the fumes from the funnel come in and then you suffocate. Well, I don’t hate all boats—we went on a cruise once—that was nice—but this one is awful. So, did you contact a friend about the bombings?”

  “Yeah. They’re keeping an eye on it. Maybe they’ll ask me for a photo or to do an interview. Seems the government is blaming an old enemy and the enemy is blaming the government. I’ve seen that so many times.”

  “You know,” Clayton said, “I probably knew some of those people who were killed. Oh, God, that’s awful. I didn’t think of it. Oh, God.” Her hand was at her mouth. “I’ll be showing up not knowing who’s dead. And I was just worrying about this rotten boat.”

  Bolan reached into his back pocket and pulled out the cell phone. He held it out to her. “If you want to make a quick call, you can use this. There’s still one stripe, but you’ll have to stand on deck to have a chance at reception.”

  She looked at the offered phone, then nodded. Getting up from the bunk, she rooted around in a bag, removing a battered address book. She found a number, typed it into the phone and then looked at Bolan. “Walk with me?” she asked.

  Bolan led her back onto the deck where he had stood and moved off a little to allow her some privacy. Clayton pressed the tiny green call button and waited for a connection. Bolan could make out mutterings, a disappointed “Oh, no,” followed by a “Yes, I remember him.” After a minute she broke the connection and handed the cell phone back to Bolan.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Any problems?”

  “Somebody I once met is among the dead. Several others are in hospital or are being flown home. They think that twenty-five are dead, and many are wounded. Why would anybody want to do this?” She gripped the taffrail with both hands, staring at the horizon, not focusing on any one thing. “I hate bombs. Bombs, guns, anybody who uses them.”

  Bolan remained silent. He understood the sentiment, wanting nothing more than a world free of death and destruction. Unfortunately he knew that would never come to pass.

  “Did I tell you I was a teacher in Chicago?” Clayton continued. “We used to confiscate guns from eight-year-olds. Eight-year-olds! They needed them for ‘protection’ because they didn’t feel safe. What sort of world do we live in where children need to protect themselves, and aid workers are blown up for helping others? Monsters, Mike. Monsters walk among us. I’m going back down. Thanks for the phone.”

  She left Bolan on the deck, reflecting. Monsters did indeed walk among them. It was the reason the Executioner existed, to fight evil by any means available. He sat down in a shaded patch of the deck, contemplating, remembering fallen friends and family as Aden slowly slipped under the horizon.

  * * *

  TOWARD THE END of the afternoon, they sat opposite each other in the ship’s cramped galley, managing to eat a simple meal of chicken and rice, which the cook had prepared for them, as the ship rocked leisurely from side to side. Neither the vibration nor the stink of oil fumes had abated once the ship had left harbor; what slight wind that there was conspired to blow the funnel smoke down onto the deck and into any open porthole. They had been instructed by the cook—a friendly Filipino—to eat up because the first shift of the crew would be down soon and seating space would disappear. Along with all available food.

  As they downed their surprisingly good meal, Clayton informed Bolan of the difficulties in moving the rice from Djibouti City to northern Obcock, the region where the shipment was destined, a rug
ged, mountainous area that bordered Eritrea. There was a tiny airport at Obcock City, but her agency had considered the flight too expensive. There was a tiny harbor, also in the city, but the agency couldn’t find a boat willing to transport the shipment across the Gulf of Tadjoura from Djibouti City to Obcock—no reasons had been forthcoming. The Help Without Borders agency had settled on a small convoy of trucks to drive around the bay that divided the country almost in two. And there were so many tales of how dangerous it was. Bolan had inquired if there was an escort, and Clayton replied that she believed the army or the police would be providing something—that was, if there was any rice left to deliver, the black market in Djibouti being so huge.

  Bolan was about to ask more when he heard a commotion coming down the corridor. Somebody was yelling, screeching incoherently. The cook fled into a store room as Captain Abu burst in, waving his hands in the air, Grubby close on his heels. Abu spotted Bolan and approached the table. He shouted hysterically at Bolan, who raised his hand and gave the man a look that cut off the torrent of words in an instant.

  “Calm down,” Bolan instructed. “Take a deep breath and tell me what’s wrong.”

  Abu took a deep breath and then relaunched his tirade, but this time in English.

  “You lie! You lie! You tell all lies! Why? Why? Did Abu not give you his ship? Was Abu not nice enough? Did cousin not say sorry?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Abu. Tell me again.”

  It was Grubby who picked up the thread, his look one of contempt.

  “You phone American Army. They send two helicopters to us. They radio, say we must stay on course and speed…”

  Bolan was already moving. He grabbed Clayton by the hand, hauling her to her feet. “Abu,” he said quickly, “I called no one. But if the US Navy is here, then you need to return to the bridge immediately. It means there are pirates in the area. Nancy, come with me.”

  He pulled the aid worker along, back down to their cabin, leaving Abu and Grubby standing openmouthed. Clayton protested but didn’t resist. Once in the cabin, Bolan released her and began rummaging in his sports bag.