Armed Response

by Don Pendleton

  “Look,” Douglas interjected, “if it makes you feel any better, I was with Saint-Verran just before he died. He was telling me about the Trenchard people you led into Obcock.”

  Bolan narrowed his gaze at the mention of Obcock. The name rang a bell, but he couldn’t put a finger on what it was.

  Abdourahman stared at Douglas with new respect.

  “That was you?”

  Douglas held up his hands, displaying the dirty bandages.

  “That is how this happened. Hurts like hell, especially when driving over sand dunes.”

  “Abdourahman,” Bolan broke in, “what happened in Obcock?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing happen. Monsieur Saint-Verran, he call, he say have job. We take two Americans into Obcock mountains. Very dangerous. Many bandits there. Many rebels. We take boat, over Tadjoura Bay to Obcock. Then truck into mountains. Americans take many small machines. Many computers. Also—” Abdourahman paused, searching for the right word “—small round dish, like for television.”

  “A satellite dish,” Bolan prompted, “for communications?”

  “Yes. Yes. To talk to America. They talk many times. We are in mountains maybe ten days. No bandits. No problems. One American, he find it too hot. His friend say it is like Arizona.”

  “What did the Americans do?” Douglas asked.

  “Work with computers and machines. Always with computers. They bring sun panel for electric. Lots of sun. Adbullah and I, we walk around, look for bandits and snakes and scorpion. We come back. The Americans talk to computer. They not seem happy. They talk to man called General. They say lots of ‘Yes, General.’ They stop with computer and talk to each other. Then we stay for three days, then leave for city. Men go home. That all I know.”

  Bolan turned to Douglas. “You researched Trenchard Oil Industries. Is there anybody who works there with the title of general? A retired military man perhaps?”

  “Not that I know of. Everybody in the upper management seemed to come from stuffy business schools.”

  Bolan turned back to Abdourahman. “Can you lead us into the mountains, to the place where you took the Americans?”

  Abdourahman shook his head. “No. I not go back. I stay here. Bandits want me dead. I not know why. I know nothing.”

  “Maybe not, but the bandits think you know something. Did you see any soldiers around there?”

  Douglas chimed in. “Saint-Verran said there were mercenaries in the same area. Did you see them?”

  Abdourahman continued to shake his head. “Non. I see no one. I not understand what men say to computer. It was difficult English. I only know they find no oil.”

  “What!” Douglas exclaimed. “Then why did they return? Saint-Verran was certain the Trenchard guys came back.”

  Bolan looked steadily at Abdourahman. “Are you certain they found no oil?”

  “Oui! They say ‘there is no oil, General.’”

  “But they spent another three days there. What were they doing?”

  “I not know. They work with computers and machines. We look for snakes and bandits. I know nothing. Nothing. They kill brother for nothing. They want to kill me for nothing.” Abdourahman slumped into his chair.

  Bolan glanced at Douglas, then turned his gaze back to Abdourahman.

  “Can you read a map?” he asked. Abdourahman nodded. “Then I would like you to find a map and show us where you were for ten days. Then we will leave.”

  Abdourahman nodded again, got up and left the room.

  “And exactly how are we going to get there without a guide?” Douglas wanted to know.

  “I have an idea,” Bolan said.

  Abdourahman returned a few minutes later, holding a brand-new road map of Djibouti. He spread it out on the table.

  “My uncle say you have this. Also car is ready outside. You keep it.”

  “Tell your uncle that we are very grateful,” said Bolan.

  They waited while Abdourahman studied it. Then he pointed to a spot well north of the town of Obcock.

  “Here,” he said.

  Bolan studied the map, then marked the spot with a pencil. “Thank you. We’ll leave you in peace now. To mourn for your brother.”

  Abdourahman led them through the boutique. The two Americans saw neither the uncle nor the aunt in the shop full of junk. Several scruffy men were hanging around, but they barely gave the two strangers a second glance. Bolan turned to thank Adbourahman again, but the guide was gone. Outside, a rusting white Peugeot 205 was waiting for them.

  The keys were in the ignition. Bolan placed the sports bag in the car’s tiny cargo area as Douglas squeezed into the passenger seat, complaining about Europeans and their small cars. Bolan climbed behind the wheel, adjusting the seat to fit his large frame.

  “Great,” Douglas muttered. “We have to go into Obcock without a guide. You know it will be suspicious if we don’t have a cover story.”

  “I have a cover story. I’m a journalist, remember. And I suggest you get a cover as a photographer.”

  “And how do we get there? Drive this rust bucket? This will just get us to the city and no more. I guess the uncle wasn’t too grateful.”

  “I know someone. The name Obcock rang a bell. An aid worker and a convoy of rice will be traveling there in the morning.”

  “I sense a big but.”

  “Yeah,” Bolan said as he twisted the ignition key. “She doesn’t like me. You’ll have to do the talking.”

  * * *

  THE PEUGEOT 205 gave up a half mile from the safehouse. Its engine coughed once, then it coasted to a stop in the middle of a junction, forcing Bolan and Douglas to push the tiny car to the side of the road while angry, impatient drivers honked their horns in frustration. They abandoned the car, keys in the ignition, and walked the rest of the way, checking all the time for surveillance from the authorities or even would-be muggers. Nobody showed much interest in them, not even a police car that cruised by.

  They reached their destination in the early evening. Bolan noted that the black-market guards had changed shifts, their replacements sporting soccer shirts of European nations. The safehouse was still secure. Bolan dropped the heavy sports bag on the floor while Douglas busied himself with the old coffeemaker.

  “I have to report in,” Douglas announced. “Let them know what has been happening. I’ll probably get my ass handed to me for shooting up the city and destroying police cars. Even though I did no shooting.”

  “I only fired five shots, if that helps.”

  “Yeah, sure, great. I’ll just let Langley know that I am running around with you.”

  “Listen, how much money have you got left in that slush fund?”

  “A couple thousand. Why?”

  “The M-16 is a great rifle, but I couldn’t assemble it today for it to be useful. The Beretta pistol was underpowered. I need something small and compact, like an Uzi. You make your report. I’m going shopping.”

  “And where the hell will you find an Uzi?”

  “Your neighbors, opposite. The black-market boys. They sell everything, right?”

  “They are more likely to shoot you.”

  “Not if I shoot them first. But I don’t think they’ll shoot. They’re more interested in business. White man, black man, it doesn’t matter as long as cash is involved. You want anything?”

  Douglas shook his head. He dug out the money and handed it to Bolan, who left him to his coffeemaker.

  “Hey,” Douglas called after him, “I might know somebody up in Obcock. I’ll see if I can arrange a meeting. Transport or something.”

  But Bolan was already gone.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  An hour later Douglas was finished making his report. As expected he had been chewed out. The job was unauthorized. There had been no instructions from Langley. He was supposed to be lying low, working some angles on the bombing investigation, not tearing around Djibouti City in stolen vehicles, shootin
g anything that moved, causing untold damage to police cars, not to mention civilian deaths. And then he was hanging out with an unknown agent. The chief was furious at the thought that somebody in America had commandeered one of his men without informing him. And why hadn’t he reported in earlier, before he decided to have fistfights on train roofs and destroy half of a city in two car chases?

  Douglas had protested, saying that the agent he’d met at the dock had happened to be with him when the hotel bombers had attempted to kill him; the rest had just followed. The station chief had fallen silent, then asked what Douglas needed to continue on this quest of his. Cover documents for a reporter called Mike Blanski and for a photographer called Peter Douglas. The CIA section chief said they would be delivered at first light, that Douglas was to make regular reports and that he was not to trust Blanski. And he was to put everything in writing. Immediately.

  Douglas started to shake shortly after completing his written report and sending it in. Doctors would refer to it as something fancy, like post-traumatic stress disorder, but Douglas knew that he was just plain scared. Car bombs, car chases, people shooting at him… There had to be a contract out on him; the police probably had their version of an APB out on him. What would Cindy, his ex, say when they informed her that his bullet-riddled body had been found in the desert? Would she even care?

  Then there was Blanski. Where was he? Only popped out to the local store to buy a couple of guns. He could be dead by now; one of the black-market villains could have knifed him in the back. Another thought occurred to Douglas. Did the faceless enemy know about this safehouse? There were people watching his own apartment, but had anybody managed to follow them here? Douglas brushed the back of his hand against his face and was surprised to find it wet. Tears were streaming down his face.

  He wiped his face with a tissue. Then pinched himself, hoping to snap out of his morbid pensiveness. There was no going back. The following day they would travel to Obcock, to the heart of the problem, to look for two mysterious oilmen and a camp of armed mercenaries. Men who were not hoodlums, men who were dangerous and knew how to shoot straight.

  “Are you okay?”

  The voice was soft, but Douglas yelped and all but jumped out of his skin. He spun to find Bolan standing a mere foot behind him.

  “Jesus! You almost killed me! How long have you been standing there?”

  “Just as you were submitting your report to the Agency.”

  “Shit. Look—”

  Bolan cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Don’t worry about it. But I need to know something about you. Are you up for this? If not, then say so now. I can go on alone.”

  “It’s not that, it’s… Aw, shit. It’s just that nobody has ever shot at me before. I’ve never been involved in a high-speed pursuit, and I’ve never seen anybody jump from an out-of-control pickup onto a speeding train. I guess it just caught up with me, that’s all. But I have been ordered to find out about these Americans in Obcock, so I have to go, like it or not.”

  “But can I rely on you?”

  Douglas returned Bolan’s gaze. “Yes. Yes, you can. I owe it to Davies and to Saint-Verran to see this thing through.”

  “Good. Now look up a Dutch charity called Help Without Borders and a woman called Nancy Clayton. Find out where she is in Djibouti.”

  “Okay. Did you have any luck with the neighbors?”

  “Yeah. Quite friendly guys once they were encouraged to talk. They sold me some gear at discount prices, and even had some clothes that should fit. I also managed to persuade them to donate some of their food to the poor in the neighborhood.” Bolan indicated a large plastic bag that he had managed to bring up the stairs without Douglas hearing a thing. He pulled out two matching sets of desert-camouflage battle fatigues in the six-color pattern favored throughout Africa. Wrapped up in the clothes to prevent rattling were two new-looking Skorpion machine pistols, along with ten fully loaded magazines and two M26 fragmentation grenades. At the bottom of the bag Bolan produced shoulder holsters and slings for the Skorpions and their Berettas.

  “I plan to change clothes once we leave the aid convoy and go on recon,” Bolan said.

  “How much did this all cost?” Douglas asked, wondering how he would explain it to his boss.

  “I knew from previous experience that the going price for an AK-47 in Ethiopia is around $250. I got the Skorpions for $200, including the ammunition. The grenades and uniforms for $75. The food they threw in.”

  “Are we going to have any problems with them?”

  “Not as long as we’re here. They may move in tomorrow after we leave and vent their frustrations. It will pay for you to inform the Agency and have them send some guys around to clean the place out.”

  “Great. A safehouse blown. Why couldn’t you just get some stuff from the Marines at Lemonnier?”

  “I don’t want to involve them. I’m here unofficially. I just can’t walk in and ask for the keys to the armory. Have you found anything on Clayton yet?”

  “Yeah. It’s on their main website. A wonderful blog telling the world what they are doing, where they are going and when they are leaving. Idiots. They should be departing at nine in the morning from Warehouse 4 at the main docks. What dumbasses. Don’t they know what security is?”

  “Probably somebody back at main office typed all that in to show off to sponsors. That sort of stupidity happens all the time. I’m going to clean the weapons and then get some shut-eye. What about that person you were going to contact?”

  “A guy called Samar. He’s a bit of a rogue. He does things for the French and sometimes for us. He’ll meet us on the city outskirts.”

  “Good. Now, where is that coffee you were making?”

  * * *

  THEY CAUGHT A taxi to the docks the next morning, departing just as two men showed up with a van, ready to remove the safehouse furniture and equipment. Across the road Douglas saw two hoods guarding the entrance to the black-market building, both sporting black eyes and bruises. Douglas wondered how persuasive Blanski had been. The two thugs glared back, then looked away once they spotted the tall American, pretending to take no interest in the activities opposite.

  Bolan gave them a little wave as he placed the heavy sports bag in the taxi’s trunk, noting that the seams were beginning to split. The quality in replica goods was definitely falling, he mused.

  The taxi took them to the harbor without any problems. Bolan spotted the MV Cape Faith still moored but dwarfed by two new container ships that had to have docked the night before. They paid the driver and gave him a generous tip, then walked into the warehouse, removing their sunglasses in the sudden change of light. The building wasn’t that large, and the off-loaded rice took up only half the floor space. Several Africans sat around looking bored. Bolan nodded to a small office unit at the end and walked toward it, Douglas trailing him and lugging the sports bag.

  Bolan found Nancy Clayton sitting with her back toward him, elbows resting on an old metal desk that had seen better days, a black telephone handset pressed against her ear. She was speaking loudly to whoever was on the other end of the line. A bad connection, Bolan thought.

  “No, forty…forty percent, not fourteen. It disappeared during the night…No, the guards saw nothing…most likely they helped carry the stuff out…No, the trucks haven’t shown up. Two water tankers have, but the rest…I think that we will only need three now, not five…No, nothing has shown up…I don’t know where to find more trucks. You were supposed to handle that…Well, find me some trucks then, with drivers…Yes, the translator is here, as is the guide. They wanted money before they even said hello…Yes, okay, I’ll talk to you later.”

  She hung up the phone and groaned, muttering something inaudible.

  “Hello, Nancy,” Bolan said.

  She spun, saw Bolan, then closed her eyes, placing her hands against her forehead.

  “And just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, you show up. And I see you’ve f
ound a friend. And he carries your bag for you. How nice. Does he know there’s a gun in it?”

  “Yeah. And the gun has been joined by several more. We need a favor. One that may be beneficial to you.”

  “How can anything you do be beneficial? Unless of course you’re here to recover my stolen rice. They took it during the night, the bastards. Go shoot them or something. Stealing from their own people. Bastards. And there are no trucks to carry it. The company we hired claims that somebody else offered them more money to carry another shipment, so they went with them instead. Probably carrying my stolen rice. Bastards, the lot of them. And my so-called colleagues, who were supposed to be here waiting, decided to get sick. Both of them. Can you believe that? And how did you find me?”

  “It’s on your website. Times and everything. It’s probably how your thieves knew when to visit and what you were shipping.”

  “Brilliant. Just brilliant. Stick it on the website, why don’t you? I tell you, when I get back to Holland I’m going to kick some ass, then quit. Stupid fools. They couldn’t organize sex with a hooker. So, who’s your friend? Does he shoot people, as well?”

  “His name is Peter, and he doesn’t like shooting people.”

  “I like him already. More than I like you.”

  To Douglas she said, “Do you know that Mike here shoots people?”

  “Yeah, I gathered that yesterday when we were driving around the city.”

  “Driving around the city? Oh, marvelous. That was you? I might have guessed. It was on the radio, you know that? They were scraping bodies off the streets.”

  “We aren’t here to discuss yesterday. We’re interested in today,” Bolan said.

  “And what happens today?”

  “You’re going to Obcock. We want to go to Obcock. So I figured we could hitch a ride and maybe protect your rice shipment from any bandits who show up.”

  “We aren’t going anywhere. I told you, no trucks. And only a little more than half of the rice is left.”

  “We’ll arrange some trucks,” Bolan said. “Peter here can make some phone calls—”