Don Pendleton - Dangerous Tides

The soldier pulled the grapnel free from its position wrapped around a railing strut. He hooked it through the empty gear bag and tossed both over the side so they would not be found and give away his presence prematurely. Then he stalked forward.

He made his way through the ship’s galley, which was dark and smelled of spoiled food. He dared not risk using the flashlight he carried, as it would give away his position to anyone lurking nearby. Instead he crept among the counters, half-crouched, threading his way past fallen pots and pans and puddles of alcohol dotted with broken glass.

There were bullet holes in some of the bulkheads. Dried blood coated the floor and made a grisly path toward one of the walk-in coolers. Bolan had no doubt he would find bodies inside. Either the pirates had felt it necessary to make an example of some of the crew, or even the passengers, or they had met resistance and snuffed it out. Either way, it was likely the cooler was now a morgue. The Executioner passed it by, knowing there was nothing he could do for those already dead.

Moving silently, Bolan paused just outside the entrance to the galley. Through the open hatchway he could smell tobacco. There was a sentry out there. Pressing himself against the bulkhead, his back flat on the painted metal, he leveled the Beretta 93-R across his chest. Then he took his left hand, balled it into a fist and simply knocked on the bulkhead.

He tapped three times, waited and tapped again.

“Budi?” a voice asked, uncertain. The sentry called Budi’s name twice more before asking something in what Bolan assumed was Indonesian. Finally, Bolan rapped on the wall yet again.

“Budi!” the sentry said angrily. Bolan listened as the man walked to the entrance and stepped through.

“Sorry, Budi’s not here,” Bolan whispered. The startled sentry turned to look at him, a Kalashnikov held in his hands, ready to open fire. Bolan triggered a single suppressed round from the Beretta. The head shot dropped the terrorist, dead before he hit the deck. Bolan snatched the AK-74 before it could clatter to the floor.

Several seconds passed as Bolan waited, listening. There was no more movement from beyond the galley. Holstering the Beretta, he placed the terrorist’s weapon on the deck and quickly searched the corpse. He found nothing of use—a spare magazine for the Kalashnikov, a Pakistani-made folding knife, a few loose coins from countries in the region. It took only a moment to drag the sentry to the galley’s cooler. He was not surprised to find it filled with corpses, most of them dressed as cooks and shipboard stewards. Bolan added the pirate to the pile and secured the cooler door.

Scooping up the Kalashnikov, Bolan popped the cover. He pulled the bolt, recoil spring and plunger assembly free, hiding the now-useless rifle behind a metal garbage bin. He dropped the parts inside the bin itself. There was no sense leaving functioning weapons behind. It was a lesson he’d learned on the many battlefields he’d walked through the years.

Satisfied, Bolan continued on, through the bowels of the ship, determined to free the passengers. The pirates had expected two hundred or more soft targets, plus the crew. He was going to give them a lot more than they’d bargained for.

The Executioner had come aboard.

Hell was coming with him.

A sweep of the ship’s luxury restaurant yielded nothing. The faint smell of food starting to spoil filled the air. Many of the place settings held half-finished meals, glasses of wine overturned, leaving red stains across the white linen tablecloths. Here and there were pools of dried blood and bullet holes. The pirates had not gone easily with the passengers or the ship’s crew. That much was obvious.

Bolan crept through the restaurant and checked his bearings. Beyond the restaurant, the remainder of this deck—to the bow—held officers’ quarters. There was also a medical facility. Bolan found that and checked it first, finding some of the supplies scattered around, the drawers and cabinets emptied. A few empty plastic bottles littered the floor. Bolan picked one up. It was a prescription painkiller, from the label. The pirates must have gone through and swept up anything with narcotic value, of which there would be plenty among medical stores. From the mess made of some of the first-aid supplies, it was possible that one or more of the invaders had been wounded during the attack. Either that, or they’d allowed medical treatment to be given to wounded crew or passengers. There was no way to be sure yet.

As he stalked through the officers’ cabins, Bolan paused at each hatchway, listening. When he heard nothing, he moved on to the next, and repeated the process as he moved through the section. He was getting close to the bow when he heard muffled cries from one of the cabins. He stopped, the Beretta 93-R steady in his grip, as he assessed the situation.

A woman cried out, her voice muted by something, most likely a gag. There was the sound of a hand slapping flesh, and another cry of pain from the woman. Then a man’s voice, saying something angrily—Bolan was certain it was in Vietnamese, a language with which he’d had some experience—followed by a second voice, in broken English.

Bolan waited as long as he dared, as the two men laughed and again struck the woman. He gritted his teeth. When the man speaking in English said, “Let’s finish with her,” he knew he had no more time to assess the threat.

The Executioner used his left shoulder to shove the partially open door the rest of the way, launching himself through the hatchway with gun in hand. As he hit the floor and rolled on his leading shoulder, he quickly surveyed the room. On the bunk against one bulkhead, two men held a young woman, wearing only her underwear. One had a kitchen knife, possibly taken from the galley. An ancient Tokarev pistol had been left on the small metal writing desk nearby. The pirates—both of them dark skinned and clad in mismatched camouflage fatigues—looked up in disbelief as the intruder tumbled into the small cabin.

That look of disbelief was all one of them would ever wear again. The man with the knife got out a single curse in Vietnamese before a 124-grain hollow point from Bolan’s Beretta silenced him forever, snapping his head back as he crumpled onto the bunk. The knife clattered to the deck.

The second pirate was smarter and faster. He threw himself at Bolan, probably realizing he had no other chance. The smaller man slammed into the soldier, knocking him back against the writing desk, one hand scrabbling at the desk as the other locked a viselike grip on Bolan’s gun hand. Even as he grappled with the pirate, Bolan knew the man was going for the unattended Tokarev.

Bolan had greater upper-body strength, but the pirate fought like a madman, fear of death and surging adrenaline lending strength to his desperate efforts. Bolan managed to lock his elbow around the pirate’s free arm, effectively stopping his attempts to grab for the Tokarev. Then he slammed a series of vicious knee jabs into the pirate’s gut. The man cried out and bent over, losing his hold on Bolan’s wrist. The soldier immediately clubbed the pirate on the back of the head with the Beretta. The man went limp and Bolan allowed him to collapse to the floor.

The woman on the bunk began to sob into her gag. Her eyes were wide and moved from Bolan to the dead man beside her, then back to Bolan again.

“It’s all right,” Bolan said softly. “I’m not going to hurt you.” From a small pouch on his web gear he produced a flat roll of black fabric tape and two plastic strap cuffs. He used the tape to gag the unconscious pirate. Then he used the cuffs to secure the smaller man’s ankles and cuffed the wrists behind the man’s back.