Rogue Elements

Bolan nodded. “Anything else of note?”

“Two container units of Indian Amrut Brandy, bound for ports of call the Prophet Mohammed would not approve of, and, might I add, if this all some sad plot to finagle a grog ration, I will—”

“I’ll need two cases of the Amrut, actually just the bottles, and four or five cans of kerosene.” Bolan quirked an eyebrow for what was becoming his munition of choice on the Arabian Peninsula. “Got any liquid soap?”

Captain Cleverly saw exactly where this was going. “Oh...my...God...”

“Oh, and I need to talk to the engineer.” Bolan saw his plan coming together. “I’ll need ball bearings, biggest he has.”

* * *

Bolan stood in front of a folding table and addressed his team. Morale was about as low as it could get. The Executioner shouted, “At attention!”

Team Viking snapped to attention.

“The enemy will most likely attack us midships, in fast boats, attempting to avoid the water cannons and erect boarding ladders. They will not be easily dissuaded. It is my personal opinion that they intend to take the Caprice, kill everyone on board, including us, and make it disappear. The captain and crew will try to maneuver the water cannons into position, but they will be mostly useless.”

“No fucking shit!” Mendez agreed. “So we’re back to you and Sifu’s liquid soap and souvenir dagger defense? I say we call Hy back and seriously renege on our contracts! If he won’t come, we commandeer the lifeboat and get the hell out of here. Who’s with me?”

Mono, Big Abe and Ketch looked on the verge of agreeing. Sifuentes gave Bolan a guilty look.

Ibarra gave Mendez a Latina-to-Latino head fake and sneer. “Puto.”

He stabbed a defiant finger her way. “Call me anything you want, honey! You go ahead and stay here with your gringo boyfriend! The Somali pirates will probably do things to you he’s afraid to try! Me? I am out!”

Mono and Ketch nodded.

Bolan nodded. “Laz?”

“Yeah?”

Bolan dropped to one knee and hurled a right-hand lead into Mendez’s bladder. He folded as Bolan rose. The Executioner watched with clinical detachment as his teammate writhed, clutched and peed his cargo pants. “That’s pee, Laz. The next time I hit you, you’ll pee blood, and I’ll throw you overboard. The minute you stepped off that chopper you were in. All in. There is no going back. All we have is us, and a job we’ve already been paid for. We have a cargo and crew to protect and a ship to save. So stand up. Stand up for your team.”

Mendez moaned.

“Stand up, or I stand you up. Then I bum-rush you right over the rail. It’s your choice. I don’t give a shit. We’re out of time.”

Mendez got a foot underneath himself and stood. “Screw you.”

“Good.” Bolan nodded in approval. “Anyone else?” He suddenly held up his hands. “Except you, Abe. Not sure I can bum-rush you anywhere, big man.” Big Abe snorted. “No worries, brah. Anyone turns chicken shit on this action, I’ll hold ’em, you hit ’em.” The Samoan lifted his chin toward the blue waters over the bow. “Then I’ll be happy to take out the garbage.”

Despite his extreme physical discomfort, Mendez bravely raised his hand. “Can I ask a question?”

“I welcome questions, Laz.” Bolan nodded. “What’s on your mind?”

“Do you have a plan?”

“We have a strategy.” Bolan turned to Crane Specialist Houston, who set a brandy carton full of bottles on the table. Every soldier who had seen combat kept a spare pair of boots close. Bolan had requisitioned all of them and spent the last hour cutting out the boots’ tongues and weaving the laces. The Executioner took up his backpack and dumped out his handiwork on the table. “Houston.”

Crane Specialist Houston took up an Amrut bottle loaded with kerosene and liquid soap with a bandanna stuffed down the neck.

Big Abe sighed happily. “Molotov cocktail!”

Bolan nodded at Houston. “Light me.”

He put the bottle in the sling and Houston’s Zippo lighter chinked. Bolan pulled the sling taut and gave the burning bottle three good revolutions to give the fire oxygen, then slung it. The flaming bottle pulled a beautiful spiral and slammed into the bow crane ten meters away. Bolan was pretty sure Captain Cleverly was having a fit up in the bridge as the fire clung viscously and crawled up the crane. Team Viking stared in fascination.

Bolan reached into a plastic bucket and took up a one-inch ball bearing he had requisitioned from the ship’s engineer and seated the sphere of high-carbon stainless steel in the sling’s pocket. It had been a while since Bolan had used the maneuver, but he gave it the forward, back and forward Z-shaped windup for dramatic effect and let loose.

The flaming crane boom rang like a bell.

“And that’s how David slew Goliath.”

Big Abe clapped his hands. “Biblical, brah.”

The rest of the team started applauding. The crewmen standing under the bridge started applauding. Bolan nodded at Houston, and the crane specialist ran to the boom with a fire extinguisher. Bolan held up the sling to his team.

“They have to sail right up to us. They have to try to attach a ladder, then they have to climb up it. This is how we defeat them. They aren’t ready.” Bolan turned and held out the sling. “Abe, you’re up.”

Chapter Five (#u11f59329-cc40-5af7-bf13-a805005f1517)

Bolan stood on the bridge wing and took in the Arabian Sea breeze. The stars were just fading. Every member of his team could reliably hit a crane at twenty meters, and he figured that meant they could hit a human at five. Everyone had ten ball bearings half the size of a golf ball in their cargo pockets, and boxes of Molotov cocktails were spaced strategically around the deck with a lighter or matches handy. So were buckets of cooking and machine oil. Houston and three other sailors had volunteered to man the water cannons watch on watch, and the captain was issuing a tot of the opened brandy after each watch to improve morale.

Bolan nodded to himself and drank coffee. The cook on the Caprice was no Namzi, but he’d do. Coffee and hot food were available 24/7. Bolan’s team was spoiling for a fight, the crew was salty and the Caprice was as ready for battle as it was ever going to be.

Bolan just hoped the enemy didn’t have RPGs.

He smelled Ibarra’s perfume just before he heard the click of the ball bearings in her pocket. “Hey, Blue.”

“Hey yourself.” Bolan held out his coffee. Ibarra accepted the mug. She was wearing her sling around her brow like a headband. “No brandy in yours?”

“Nope.”

Ibarra lifted her chin into the breeze and breathed deep with pleasure. “About an hour till sunrise.”

Bolan’s internal clock agreed as he watched the horizon. “Yeah.”

“Wanna go for a quickie in the crane operator’s booth?”

“Yeah.” Bolan shook his head. “But nope.”

“What, we’re still on duty?”

“I’m pretty much on duty 24/7 until we’re in international waters and have guns.”

“What about when we are victorious?”

“Then we’ll celebrate like our pagan ancestors.”