Armed Response Read online

  “We’re here,” he said, before exiting the vehicle. Bolan climbed out and Thompson locked the car’s doors. He followed his contact to the door of a two-story house. They entered the dim hallway, the temperature difference surprising Bolan. The house felt cold compared to outside. Thompson didn’t seem to notice.

  “I’m upstairs,” he said. “A guy from the British Embassy has the downstairs apartment.”

  Bolan followed Thompson to the top. The journalist opened the door and led the way into a spacious white-walled living room. At one end was an immaculate kitchenette. At the other an L-shaped sofa faced a large flat-screen TV. A coffee table separated the two. Bolan’s eyebrows rose.

  “You have a maid?” he asked.

  “No, man. I clean it myself. In case you’re wondering, the television and all the Blu-ray paraphernalia I got from a guy who knows another guy. Like I told you, there’s a hell of a black market here.”

  “Stolen goods.”

  “Nah, I was given to understand that a crate had been found floating in the harbor.”

  “Right. Where’s the satellite hookup?”

  “In here.” Thompson showed Bolan into a bedroom. A single bed occupied one wall, while the opposite wall had a desk and several bookshelves packed with magazines, novels and nonfiction books. An all-in-one printer sat next to the computer monitor. Thompson shook the mouse to clear the screen saver and entered a password. Then he clicked an icon. A white pop-up appeared, asking for a number.

  “The computer came from your guys. It’s clean. Say, do you want a drink?”

  Bolan nodded and followed Thompson to the kitchenette, where he was handed a glass of cold orange juice. He downed it and asked for another. Thompson obliged him.

  “So, what can you tell me about the events of last night? I’ll need to file some sort of story to keep the editors happy.” Thompson took several eggs from the fridge and started preparing an omelet for breakfast.

  Bolan thought for a moment before narrating what had happened, emphasizing that the Yemeni army did everything; he was never there.

  “So let me get this straight. They sent you in to confirm that Qutaiba was on the ground. Instead you jump out of an airplane, without a functioning parachute, lose your guns on the way down, then decide you will take on a hundred bad guys using only your six-shooters and your fists, before strolling nonchalantly across the desert to rendezvous with me?”

  Bolan nodded, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “Yeah, that’s just about it. Don’t forget the bit about dueling with the kingpin.”

  Bolan finished his orange juice and plucked a cookie out of a nearby glass jar. He pulled the notebook out of his pocket.

  Time to get down to business.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The pages still didn’t make much sense. Bolan could read a little Arabic, but the words seemed disjointed, out of place. A few English words were scattered in between. Bolan looked up at Thompson. “Is there a place around here called Cape Faith?”

  Thompson thought for a minute. “Can’t say there is. Not a land feature, anyway. I’ll check online.” He left the omelet and went into the spare bedroom. Bolan could hear him clacking away at the keyboard. Thompson came back into the living room. “Nope, and there isn’t a charity or church in the region with that name, either. Is it a target?”

  “No idea. And it seems they wanted to buy a Ford. See what you make of this.” Bolan handed the notebook to Thompson and finished off preparing the omelet. He was famished. The former blacksuit flicked through the pages as Bolan began to eat.

  “This is gibberish,” Thompson said. “These are real Arabic words, but in some form of code. I can’t make anything out of it.”

  “Do you have a scanner? A method of uploading documents to your Justice contact?”

  Thompson nodded.

  “Then you can scan the book in, while I clean up.”

  “The bathroom is in there.” Thompson pointed to a door. “Plenty of towels, and I have an extra toothbrush in the cupboard. I’ll get on with this.”

  Bolan went into the bathroom as Thompson began to scan in the pages. The images would be uploaded to a cloud host, no doubt, passing through several internet service providers and subject to scans by military servers, before being picked up by Hal Brognola, director of the Sensitive Operations Group. Untraceable. Thompson also sent an encrypted email to Brognola, alerting him to the fact that documents were on the way and needed deciphering. By the time he was finished, he heard his contact leave the bathroom. He found a clean and fresh-looking man in the living room.

  “And now?”

  “Now I check in and we wait to see what happens.”

  Bolan poured himself another glass of orange juice, then walked to the spare bedroom. He closed the door behind him and sat at the desk. The program asking him to type a phone number was still open. He typed in the digits, different from the ones he’d first used, and waited. The computer came equipped with a microphone headset. Bolan plugged the headset into the computer’s jack socket.

  “Yes.”

  “Six Alpha Green”

  “One moment…”

  Barbara Price came on the line. “Striker?”

  “Don’t you ever sleep?” he joked.

  “Don’t you? What’s the status on your end?”

  “I’m with our friend at his place. Images have been scanned in and sent to Hal.”

  “He forwarded them to us immediately and we’re working on them now.”

  “The target is confirmed down. The notebook was his. This isn’t over yet. He was up to something. I’ll need that intel pronto because I have a feeling that there isn’t much time. Also I might need an extraction. The airport is shut down. Oh, and the parachute I was given failed. Probably folded wrong. Somebody needs his ass handed to him for that. What’s the status with the Yemeni army and police?” The information and questions were blunt and to the point. Bolan didn’t want to spend too much time on the line.

  “The State Department is praising the Yemenis for a job well-done. They don’t know whether to accept the credit or protest over the drone strikes and incursion onto their soil. There’s chatter that they’re looking for a team of commandos that’s suspected to have fled in a helicopter. You and our friend are in the clear. I’ll pass on a memo about the parachute. My heart was in my mouth when I saw that happening.”

  “Where do you think mine was?”

  “We understand that the airport will be closed all day. More than a hundred casualties. The aircraft was old. Many flights are canceled. You won’t be leaving via Aden International. We’ll look into it.” There was a pause and Bolan could hear a muffled voice in the background. “Striker? I have to go. Able Team needs assistance. Stay put if possible. We’ll be in contact about the book.” The line was broken.

  Thompson was sitting on the sofa, banging away at the keys of an old laptop. He stopped as Bolan opened the bedroom door.

  “How’s it looking?” Thompson inquired.

  “Hurry up and wait” was Bolan’s reply.

  “Yeah, nothing changes. Just filing a quick scoop on the Yemeni army. Seems everybody else around here is focusing on the crash.”

  “State is already congratulating the Yemeni government.”

  “Really? Then I had better include that, as well. Make yourself at home.” He waved his hand in the direction of the kitchenette, the living room, the spare bedroom, before returning to his typing. Bolan nodded and turned, intending to make good use of the spare bed. Hurry up and wait indeed.

  * * *

  BOLAN WOKE TO a chirping from the computer. He estimated that he had slept for two hours. Fully awake he rolled off the bed and grabbed the headset, stabbing at the keyboard with his index finger.

  “Striker.”

  “Striker, it’s me.” The voice was that of Aaron Kurtzman. “We have deciphered the code, which is quite simple. You need to be on your way, ASAP. We’re making arrangements as we speak.”

&
nbsp; “What’s the situation?”

  “Cape Faith is a ship, a small freighter, currently docked in Aden Harbor. She is loading rice and other aid, bound for Djibouti. She sails in three hours. You’re expected on board, a last-minute passenger.”

  “What are they up to?” Bolan asked.

  “They aren’t up to anything, as far as we can tell. However, Qutaiba had two groups, a two-pronged attack. You have removed one. The second intends to board the freighter midocean, making out as Somali pirates. Once in command they’ll sail the ship to Djibouti and ram it into the side of the USS Ford, a frigate currently moored in Djibouti. The idea seems to be a suicide run. Cause as much damage as possible.”

  “The USS Cole, but on a larger scale,” Bolan said.

  “Exactly. We’re in the process of alerting the USS Ford. We can put a Special Forces team on board fairly quickly—there are enough guys stationed in Djibouti—but we don’t know when the pirates will be boarding. That information wasn’t included. Qutaiba’s group planned to seize a different freighter, one that is moored in New Aden. We believe that attack has been fully scuppered, but we are alerting the authorities to keep an eye on it.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Bolan asked, already suspecting but wanting confirmation.

  Price’s voice cut in, sounding tired. “We want you on board, as an observer and backup in case something goes wrong or terrorists are already among the crew. The ship will be monitored. The moment any small boats approach, US Navy helicopters from the USS Ford will move in to intercept.”

  “I’ll need some hardware,” Bolan said, “and a way to get it past customs.”

  “According to our records, our friend has a piece. We’ll arrange something with customs. You’re using a really old identity, I believe.” Price said.

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ll be met at the harbor by a contact who will stamp your passport with the correct visa. It isn’t a long voyage to Djibouti, about a day and a half. Once you arrive at Djibouti City, you’ll be met by another contact who will escort you to Lemonnier, where you’ll be expected. Then it’s just a question of catching the next military flight out. We’ll arrange all that from here.”

  “Roger that. Where can I find the Cape Faith?”

  Aaron Kurtzman gave him the dock number, which Bolan memorized.

  “Anything else?” Bolan asked.

  “Yes, good luck,” Price said.

  “Go get some sleep. You sound like you need it,” Bolan said softly, breaking the connection. He rejoined Thompson in the living room.

  “We’re leaving,” Bolan announced.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’re taking me to a certain wharf in the harbor. There we will part company. But first I need to buy some clothes, preferably black, a sports bag and a decent-looking camera. Oh, and I want your gun.”

  “The clothes and stuff are easy,” Thompson said. “There’s a market down the road that sells all the best knockoffs. But my piece? How will I be able to shoot stray mad dogs without it?”

  “Get a new one, or get a new hobby.”

  Thompson went into the master bedroom, returning with a shoebox. He withdrew a Beretta 92-F, a pistol similar to Bolan’s preferred 93-R. He handed it over along with four magazines and a cleaning kit. Bolan quickly checked the immaculate weapon, armed it and tucked it behind his shirt. When he bought the sports bag he would hide it in there, among the clothes. He smiled at Thompson.

  “Okay, soldier, let’s move out.”

  * * *

  RUST BUCKET.

  Those were the only words that sprang into Bolan’s mind as he gazed at the light blue sides of the small freighter. At least, it had once been blue. Now orange streaks of rust were prominent, overpowering the blue paint. The superstructure at the rear was equally shabby. A stained, blackened funnel was perched atop it, noxious fumes pouring out in waves. The Plimsoll mark of the small ship was barely visible, indicating a full load. As Bolan watched, a last pallet was hoisted into the sky by the ship’s derrick, the job of the dockside stevedores all but done. He noticed that the ship’s name had been changed several times. The name MV Cape Faith was now crudely painted on the vessel’s side in letters of differentiating height.

  Bolan shook his head. He had traveled all over the world on all manner of transportation, but seldom had he voyaged on such a dirty, rusty freighter as this.

  It was just under three hours since he had spoken with Stony Man Farm. Thompson had first taken him to the market, where he had bought several T-shirts and pairs of pants in black, a baseball cap, a pair of sunglasses as well as sturdy walking boots, a sports bag and toiletry items. A Nikon camera had been last on the list. It all went into the bag. As Thompson had promised, all were first-class knockoffs. A cheap, burner cell phone joined the items. Bolan had no idea if he would need it, but not to have one and be searched would arouse suspicion in itself.

  Then they headed to the massive natural harbor that was the source of all income in Aden. The main causeway that served the eastern half of the port ran past the runway where the aircraft wreckage was plain to see, surrounded by emergency vehicles. The road was jammed solid, north to south, with cars. It seemed that everybody wanted to rubberneck at the smashed remains of the passenger aircraft on the runway. Thompson was forced to take a road that ran around the back of the airport. Even that was busy.

  Finally they were past and proceeded to the dock gates, where they parted company. Thompson waved as Bolan exited the battered Peugeot. Then he drove away, back to his normal life as a journalist.

  As the white car left, an old man approached Bolan. A bearded, smiling Arab, he held out his hands, saying, “You need visa, sir? You need visa?”

  Bolan proffered his passport and the man promptly stamped it then and there, in broad daylight. Still grinning, he handed it back to Bolan, pleased with his day’s hard work. Bolan handed him a few US dollars, the expected tip. The Arab man bowed and faded back into the nearby building from which he’d emerged.

  Bolan proceeded to walk to the wharf where the MV Cape Faith was tied up, his sports bag slung over his shoulder. With his baseball cap and dark sunglasses, he looked like any other sailor heading back to a ship. The docks were huge, and he was glad that he didn’t have to cover a great distance in the sweltering heat. He passed several large container freighters, off-loading, loading, before he arrived at the Cape Faith, dwarfed between two other massive ships. Bolan stood and stared at the dirty little freighter, the target of suicide bombers who wanted to smash her into the hull of a US warship. Even if the ship could make only ten or twelve knots, the sheer mass of four thousand tons ramming the moored USS Ford would break the warship in two. Still, forewarned was forearmed. If the terrorists succeeded in boarding the Cape Faith, then US assets would sink or board the vessel at sea. She would never be allowed to get close to the Ford.

  Mack Bolan approached the gangway. Several scruffy crew members and stevedores standing on the wharf eyed him suspiciously, but none tried to stop him or questioned his presence. At the top of the gangway he was approached by a dirty little man wearing a filthy yellow T-shirt and equally grimy blue shorts. Bolan took an instant dislike to him, more from the fact of extreme grubbiness than anything else. Grubby proudly exhibited his blackened teeth as he held out his hand to Bolan, who reluctantly shook it, then resisted the urge to wipe his own on his trouser leg. Grubby’s hand stayed in place, as if he expected a bribe or tip.

  “Permission to come aboard?” Bolan asked.

  “Yes, yes. Come. You are Blanski passenger?” Grubby’s English was broken and stilted.

  “That I am,” Bolan said, role-playing the part of a brash American journalist.

  “Good. Good. You pay now.” Grubby waved his open palm under Bolan’s chin.

  Bolan knew that Stony Man had already paid the ship’s owners for his passage, making sure that an extra cut was passed on to the ship’s master to ensure Bolan wasn’t harassed by an
y busybody officials who enjoyed making life difficult for foreigners. The cut was more than generous. Yet here was this little guy, who was clearly not in charge of the freighter, demanding money. Bolan felt his irritation rise, joining his tiredness and frustration at the heat. The deck plates were burning holes through the soles of his cheap running shoes.

  He removed the sunglasses and glared down at Grubby, his ice-blue eyes, which had intimidated so many gangsters and criminals throughout the world, pinning Grubby to the spot. The man wilted, his crooked grin fading away. His outstretched arm fell to his side.

  “Are you the captain?” Bolan’s voice was chilling.

  “Er, no, I, er…” Grubby was tongue-tied. Then to Bolan’s amusement, a lightbulb lit up behind the little man’s eyes, the running cogs almost visible inside Grubby’s skull. His grimy palm once again shot up, occupying the space under Bolan’s chin.

  “Captain send me here,” he said, “for money.” He again waved his empty hand. Several crew members stood in the background, observing the confrontation, wondering which way the discussion would go. Bolan left them in no doubt. He bent forward, leaning into the man’s personal space, his eyes inches away from Grubby’s widening dark brown ones.

  “No,” Bolan stated. “You are not the captain, and he did not send you here. Take me to him now, or I’ll find him myself and tell him how you tried to rob me.”

  The man’s face fell. Bolan could see the hate slowly rising in the brown eyes and knew that he had just made an enemy. The watching crewmen chortled at Grubby’s humiliation. He glared at them and shouted something unintelligible. Still laughing, they turned their backs and got back to work, securing the main hatches. Bolan followed Grubby across the vibrating deck and up an open stairway to the cramped bridge.

  Three men were on the bridge, one of whom was yelling into a telephone receiver. Grubby stood next to telephone man and waited. The phone was slammed down hard. Grubby started to address telephone man in a language that Bolan was surprisingly unfamiliar with. All heads turned, and Bolan felt the hostile stares of the bridge crew on him.