Pirate Offensive Read online

  Then the LAW rockets hit, blasting open ragged holes wherever they struck. Bolan saw the entire vessel shudder as thick plumes of smoke poured from every crack. Warning klaxons started and died. If men were on the deck, Bolan could not see them amid the growing conflagration. But there did come a bright peppering of heavy machine gun fire from the ship as somebody attempted to fight back.

  Just then another MiG-15 flew by, hotly pursued by a full wing of NATO Jump Jets. Twisting and turning, the MiG fired two missiles that arched backward toward the Jump Jets. The NATO pilots cut loose with their 23 mm nose cannons, and the MiG was torn apart.

  As the Albanian pilot ejected, his parachute spreading wide, a second SAM battery came to life at the far end of the harbor, the barrage of anti-tank and anti-submarine missiles plowing into the pirate ship below..

  Suddenly, one of the NATO Jump Jets paused in flight, then released every missile it had on both wings. Moments later, the top of every mountain violently exploded.

  “Damn fools must have turned the laser on them,” Bolan muttered to himself. He had to leave. The NATO pilots would start taking out every SAM bunker they could find now, and the last place he wanted to be was next to one of them.

  Bolan shifted the Hummer into gear and started up the trail for the heliport when, amid the fiery display of explosions in the harbor, he saw something dart out of the roiling smoke.

  Slamming on the brakes, Bolan clawed for his monocular and hunted for the object in the sky. It was Narmada in a Martin JetPack! Bolan bit back a curse as he watched the giant fly fly into the forest and disappear...only to reappear seconds later inside an Apache gunship painted with the NATO logo.

  As the Apache headed due east, away from the tumultuous island, rage and frustration filled Bolan for a microsecond, then cool deliberation took over. Slamming on the gas, Bolan raced back up the old gravel road to the grassy heliport. Bolan scrambled out of the Hummer and dove under the Blackhawk, dragging out his own Martin. A cursory check showed it was undamaged, and he yanked open the side hatch of the helicopter to toss it inside. Wherever Narmada was heading now, Bolan had to be prepared to follow.

  Bolan climbed into the pilot’s seat and started throwing switches. Batteries were good, oil level fine. There was plenty of fuel...

  With a controlled roar, a NATO Jump Jet streaked by, skimming the ground. The wash from the propellers threw up a storm of dust and debris, blinding Bolan for a few moments.

  “Unknown ship!” the radio boomed. “This is NATO Captain Santra Hijilliack. Turn off your engines and surrender!”

  “Negative, NATO,” Bolan replied, revving the engine. “I’m a friendly, working with Interpol. The Apache that just left contains a dangerous fugitive. I will not allow him to escape.”

  There was a short pause. “Negative, Blackhawk! Our radar shows that was a NATO recon chopper.”

  “That’s a fake ID,” Bolan replied. “Why would a recon leave the battle?”

  “Unknown, Blackhawk,” came the curt reply. “But you have no authorization. Cut those engines, or we open fire.”

  “Do what you must,” Bolan said grimly. “But I will not abandon pursuit. End transmission.”

  Grateful for the few hours of airtime he’d gotten in with Grimaldi, Bolan got the Blackhawk operating smoothly and slowly lifted off the littered heliport inside his own whirlwind of dust and debris.

  Just for a moment, the Jump Jet pilot and Bolan looked directly at each other through their mirror helmets, then they both nodded, and the NATO Jump Jet peeled away to open fire on a MiG-15 streaking toward the harbor with guns blazing.

  Thankful for the distraction, Bolan headed directly out to sea, rapidly building speed. The NATO pilot would soon return, but maybe by then he’d understand the complex situation better. At least he hoped so. The Jump Jet was armed, and the Blackhawk was not.

  It was only a few minutes before Bolan was over the water. Radar showed clear. Narmada must have a jammer in operation. He hated to admit it, but the fat son of a bitch was good. Very good.

  Switching to infrared, Bolan scanned the morning sky. Pocket thermals were everywhere—rising columns of superheated air from the burning pirate fleet. He’d almost given up when he spotted a brief flash of something small and red-hot streaking almost due east toward Albania. Gotcha.

  Of course, the urge was to power forward at full speed, but Narmada had put too much space between them. The only way he would take down Narmada now would be to outmaneuver the man. Brains, not brawn. But Bolan hoped he had enough of both.

  Bolan left the burning island behind and was soon moving fast over open water. Leaving the crazy overlapping thermals behind cleared his infrared goggles enormously. Only now there was nothing in sight but the rising sun.... Could Narmada be that smart?

  Gambling everything, Bolan also headed directly toward the blazing orb cresting the distant horizon. If Bolan was right, they would both be hiding their signatures in the warmth of the sun. If he was wrong, Narmada escaped. It was as simple as that. This was purely a gut decision. Hunter versus prey.

  Then a dark shape appeared in the sky ahead. The Apache.

  As Bolan tried for greater speed, the gunship released one of its missiles. The Sidewinder dropped away, the engines thundering into operation once it was a safe distance from the gunship. In a flash of exhaust, it was gone ...then it arched backward toward the Blackhawk.

  Remembering what Grimaldi had told him about the Blackhawk’s defense system, Bolan searched for the appropriate switches and released everything the Blackhawk carried as a defense. Chaff and flares blasted outward from either side of the helicopter. The Sidewinder arched after one then another, then exploded harmlessly in the air, the blast a hundred yards away from the target.

  Immediately, the Apache slowed and turned around.

  Knowing what to expect, Bolan threw the Blackhawk into a sharp dive. A medical evacuation helicopter against an armed gunship. This fight could not have been more one-sided if Bolan was on a bicycle going after a Tiger tank.

  The Apache released two more missiles, and then a third blip appeared on Bolan’s radar. Reacting fast, Bolan began evasive maneuvers, then realized the signal was coming from behind, not ahead or from the sides. It took only a split second for him to identify the NATO Jump Jet. Bolan felt a surge of relief, then dismay. How could they know he was on their side, and not just another pirate fleeing the law?

  “Pay attention, boys,” Bolan muttered, releasing more chaff and flares.

  Both of the Sidewinders streaked away. Just as before, the Blackhawk’s defenses took them out. But the double explosion rocked the helicopter hard, and half of the control board blanked out.

  As the Blackhawk went into a wild spin, Bolan knew he had only seconds to act before the chopper crashed. He was much too close to the ground for a parachute to save him. Only one option left.

  Scrambling from the pilot’s seat, Bolan grabbed the Martin and dove sideways out of the hatch.

  The rush of cool air helped clear his mind, and he started strapping on the awkward device. The damn turbofans kept moving through the rush of air being forced through the vents. He was actually getting some lift, and it wasn’t even turned on yet. That was good and bad. He needed stabilized flight as soon as possible, or this would be his final downward spiral.

  The safety belt was flailing about madly, slapping him all over and leaving deep gashes that welled fresh blood. Grabbing the ends, Bolan used every ounce of his strength to bring the two ends together and click them into place. Tightening the belt, Bolan hit the ignition buttons and hoped the universe had a lone moment of grace for a soldier on the bounce.

  At first, nothing seemed to happen. Then the turbofans roared with power, half the controls swinging directly into the red zone. Damn it! He was falling too fast, off balance—the fans weren’t fully synchro
nized.

  Spinning wildly and flipping over, Bolan realized he was flying upside down and powering directly for the rocky ground below.

  With no other choice, he killed the engines.

  Silence enveloped him, and he kicked out with both legs to regain some balance. Below were trees, rocks, lakes and a road, and none of it looked soft enough for a fall. He was an egg bulleting toward an anvil.

  Flipping on the power again, Bolan saw the internal gyroscope spin to operational speeds and then engage. Instantly, he leveled off a little and now twisted the controls for full power. This is it....

  The two turbofans rapidly built in both volume and power until he eased to a gentle stop only a few yards off the ground. Hovering there, Bolan looked at the morass of rocks and sticks and a small babbling creek carrying less than two inches of water. At least his death would have been fast.

  Boosting his power, Bolan now rose gracefully into the clear sky and started the hunt for Narmada once more. Before the Blackhawk went into its tailspin, Bolan had seen the Apache, leaking oil and smoke and heading for a mountainous crag shaped as a broken crown.

  Far overhead, Bolan saw a full wing of jet fighters fly by in combat formation. Good. NATO was still on the hunt. But if they blew the Apache out of the sky, Bolan would never know if Narmada had been killed—or if he had escaped with his own Martin. Sometimes luck did favor evil. Sad, but true.

  Spotting the broken crag, Bolan charged in that direction just as the alarm started to softly chime on his miniature control panel. He didn’t even need to look to know that he was again dangerously low on fuel.

  Fumbling with one hand, he found the emergency reserve switch and pressed hard. The alarm stopped, but he was down to five minutes of powered flight. Cresting a hill, Bolan looked down and saw the battered Apache wobbling along, oily smoke trailing behind it. The side hatch was gone, and Bolan could see Narmada behind the modified controls of the gunship, flying with both hands. There was red on his pants, and he seemed to be shouting at the top of his lungs into a radio headset. Too late for prayers now, murderer, Bolan thought. Then he saw that Narmada had a more earthly goal in mind.

  Almost directly ahead was a city...no, the ruins of one. One of the Soviet Union’s many attempts to instantly build a bustling metropolis in the middle of a vast and isolated part of the world. He spotted bridges leading nowhere, windowless skyscrapers, a shopping mall without a parking lot and what looked like an amusement park. The park, at least, seemed to have been completed but now it was wildly overgrown with vines, weeds and even trees. Not just saplings, but mature trees growing out of the tangled metallic struts of the rusty and corroding rides.

  Narmada skimmed low past a series of sagging concession stands, then his blades accidentally nicked a rope dangling off a tall flagpole. The torque of the blades easily snapped the ancient nylon length, but the micropause sent the Apache into a tight spin.

  As the gunship spiraled downward, Bolan cut his power and landed roughly on a small concrete building. When his boots touched the tarpaper, he braced for the roof to give way, but it held. Bolan cut the engines and quickly released the Martin. It fell off his shoulder and landed with a crash on the roof, shaking the entire structure.

  In dark harmony, a much louder crash resounded through the dilapidated city.

  Rushing to the edge of the roof, Bolan saw the Apache rolling along the ground, spewing oil, smoke and flames. The contents of the craft were being thrown across the amusement park like confetti.

  Bolan searched for the crumpled body of Narmada. And there he was—still alive, and limping along, heading away from the destroyed gunship.

  Drawing both his weapons, Bolan cursed as the man stepped behind a brick building before he could get a bead. So fast. The giant moved in a blur.

  “But not faster than a bullet,” Bolan growled, holstering his pieces.

  There was no access panel in the roof, but he found a curved metal ladder attached to the side of the building. Bolan kicked the ladder, and it burst free from rotten wood and clattered to the ground.

  Bolan surveyed the area for some other way to reach level soil and saw a nearby telephone pole. Risking everything, he charged across the roof and jumped.

  The impact knocked the air from his lungs, and splinters gouged a painful furrow along one cheek. But his arms reached around the weathered pole, and he carefully slid down.

  In a hurry to pursue Narmada, Bolan dropped the last few feet to the ground. He landed in a crouch, and the wood just above his head exploded outward with the arrival of a bullet.

  Instantly rolling to the side, Bolan came up in the kneeling position behind a wooden bench. Nothing was moving in sight aside from the wind-blown trash and leaves.

  From the angle of the shot, Bolan would place Narmada to the north of the roller coaster. He’d heard no telltale crack of a rifle, and that damn Neostead shotgun was long gone. He must be using the emergency survival automatic from the Apache. That should be a standard Heckler & Koch 9 mm, fifteen rounds in the magazine, two spare mags.

  Unexpectedly, a tin can clattered along the broken pavement near a turnstile. Bolan tightened his finger but did not shoot. Not yet. The hunted was now the hunter.

  This could get tricky.

  Chapter 15

  Quickly, Bolan reviewed his own weaponry. He had the Beretta, the Desert Eagle, several reloads for each, a single flash-bang stun grenade and his knife. No, wait...the sheath was empty. He must have lost the blade while doing those gymnastics to get control of the Martin.

  An intense itching started in his cheek, and Bolan reached up to remove the wooden splinters. The wood was old and dry and thankfully free of any paint or insect life. Just a minor flesh wound. Annoying, but nothing important.

  “Hey, Turnip!” Narmada called out, the words oddly muffled. “Want to make a deal?”

  Turnip? “Sure, come out and let’s talk!” Bolan replied, thumbing back the hammer on the Beretta.

  A low guttural laugh answered, followed by the sound of running boots.

  Bolan broke cover and took off after Narmada at a full sprint.

  The few seconds it took to cross the open stretch of pavement seemed to last an hour, and when Bolan slammed into the side of the brick building, he was breathing hard. Suddenly, he heard the sound of smashing glass.

  Forcing himself not to respond, he listened intently for any sound of the other man. Narmada was fast but still very big, and the ground was covered with broken pavement and piles of dried leaves. One wrong move on Narmada’s part would be his last.

  Checking the silencer on the Beretta, Bolan fired a single round at the distant roller coaster. The 9 mm bullet pinged off a metal sign, denting the metal deeply.

  A flurry of return gunfire came instantly, and a dozen windows in the abandoned kiosks shattered as Narmada cleverly tried to use the flying glass to drive his unseen enemy out into the open.

  Taking careful aim, Bolan fired twice more, making one of the chairs in a tilt-a-whirl start to swing back and forth noisily. Then he fired again, and a small brass bell above the door of what had been a restaurant clanged loudly.

  There was no response from Narmada.

  A few minutes later, Bolan smelled smoke. Clever, very clever. Narmada was setting fire to the stalls—the smoke would help hide the pirate’s movements, and the sound of the crackling flames would cover his footsteps. Because there was nothing he could about such a tactic, Bolan accepted it and started circling out of the area. If he was smart, Narmada would stay in the protective cloud of smoke. But if he was experienced, he would move to just outside the smoke and wait for his enemy to arrive and try to find him.

  This was another gamble, but Bolan had no choice.

  Just then, a rush of warm air filled the area, blowing away years of accumulated dust and leaves. Spin
ning around the corner, Bolan took refuge behind a small picket fence covered with the fading paintings of laughing clowns.

  A dark shadow crossed the amusement park. It was one of the NATO Jump Jets, doing a reconnaissance run. The pilot must have seen the smoke and decided that it had happened too long after the crash to be related.

  If he gets out of that plane, I have a whole new problem to deal with, Bolan noted dourly, checking the magazines in his belt. He had four, three of them red, one marked with a strip of blue tape. Those were rubber. He had no plans to take Narmada alive, but civilians often got tangled up in operations like these, and Bolan had long ago taken a vow never to kill a fellow soldier or law enforcement officer—even if his own life was on the line.

  The fighter moved across the rusting relic of the Soviet amusement park, marking a definitive search pattern.

  Unexpectedly, a dark mass came hurtling toward the Jump Jet and went straight into the portside engine. Dropping flat, Bolan slapped his hands over his ears half a second before the engine exploded. The blast shook the entire area, rattling carousel horses and thundering through the sky. Only a moment later, the fuel and ammunition onboard the jet joined the hellish detonation, and Bolan was buffeted by the brutal concussion.

  Barely able to move, he was squashed against the trembling side of the brick building, as pieces of hot shrapnel zinged in every possible direction, shattering glass, splintering wood and denting metal.

  Narmada had taken out a NATO Jump Jet with a grenade? Impressive. Almost unbelievable. In fact, it was unbelievable. To get close enough for a definite kill, Narmada would have been inside the blast zone. He wouldn’t have survived. So unless this had been a suicide...but there had been no sound of a grenade launcher....