Don Pendleton - Rebel Trade

“Aye, sir.”

Staring into mist and spitting rain with Zeiss binoculars, Mulrooney listened while Kincaid broadcast the call. He was disturbed, but not surprised, when no reply came through the speakers mounted on the MV Cassowary’s bridge. Another try; the same result.

Kincaid stated the obvious. “They’re running silent, sir.”

“Okay,” Mulrooney said. “Identify us one more time, alert them that they’re traveling on a collision course…and warn them that we’re armed.”

Kincaid frowned at the order but acknowledged it, and did as he was told.

The MV Cassowary was a merchant vessel, not a battle wagon, but that didn’t mean she was defenseless. Any captain sailing into so-called third-world waters without guns and ammunition stashed aboard these days would rate the designation of a world-class idiot.

When Kincaid’s warning brought no answer from the smaller, faster craft, Captain Mulrooney said, “Break out the hardware, Don. All hands to duty stations, just in case.”

“Aye, sir!”

The hardware came to half a dozen 12-gauge riot shotguns, one semiautomatic AR-15 rifle and Mulrooney’s .45-caliber Colt Combat Commander. None of the crew was trained in handling firearms, as far as Mulrooney knew, but how much skill did it take to point and fire a shotgun at close range?

There’d be no shooting, anyway, unless the MV Cassowary was attacked. In that case, he and Kincaid would try to block any attempted boarding. Failing that…well, they could turn the ship into a floating Alamo, if need be, but Mulrooney prayed it wouldn’t come to that.

The trouble these days was that you could never trust a pirate gang to loot a ship and leave, or even take the craft and put its crew ashore. At last count, according to the International Maritime Bureau, pirates in Somalia alone had been holding more than five hundred hostages, demanding ransom from the owners of their vessels under threat of death.

And Mulrooney wasn’t winding up that way.

Not while he had a trigger finger left.

“Visual contact, sir,” Kincaid said.

Mulrooney found the strange boat with his glasses, spotted the armed men along its rails. His stomach tightened, hit him with a sudden rush of unaccustomed nausea. Mulrooney fought it down and told his crewmen on the bridge, “We won’t be stopping. If they try to board, they’ll have to do it at top speed and under fire. Worse comes to worst, we ram them. Leave them sinking.”

“Aye, sir!” came the chorus from his men.

They seemed almost exuberant, as if it was some kind of game. Damned youngsters, raised in video arcades where players gunned down everything from gangbangers and cops to alien invaders with no consequence besides the loss of pocket change. It shouldn’t be that easy—and it wasn’t, in real life, as Jake Mulrooney had discovered during Operation Desert Storm. The trick to surviving a firefight was—

“Sir!” Kincaid’s tone quickly focused the captain’s attention. “They seem to have some kind of rocket launcher.”

“That’s an RPG,” Mulrooney said, as he observed the pirate at the speedboat’s prow. “Rocket-propelled grenade.”

Call it the modern version of your grandfather’s bazooka or the German Panzerfäust from the Second World War. He couldn’t judge the warhead’s size or nomenclature from the MV Cassowary’s bridge, but if they scored a hit… .

“Firing!” Kincaid announced, as if they needed any kind of play-by-play. There were no blind men on the bridge. All of them saw the RPG’s back blast, had time to note that it had scorched the small attack craft’s forward deck, and then it was a scramble for the nearest cover as the rocket hurtled toward them, riding on a tail of flame.

A damned good shot, Mulrooney thought, with grudging admiration, as the RPG came home, smashed through the window he’d been peering from a moment earlier, and detonated as it struck the bulkhead opposite. The blast ruptured his eardrums, deafened him forever, and he saw the fireball coming for him, even with his eyes pressed tightly shut.

Too late to fight.

So this is what it’s like, Mulrooney thought, to go down with the ship.

Chapter 1

Durissa Bay, Namibia

The soldier came ashore by moonlight, solo, powering a nine-foot Zodiac inflatable by the strength of arms and back alone, its outboard motor shipped and silent. He made no more sound emerging from the water than a fish might while leaping for an insect lit by starshine in the night. No one observed him. No one heard.

Mack Bolan dragged the Zodiac above the waterline and stashed it in a patch of six-foot-tall kunai grass where it would likely pass unnoticed, barring a determined search. He thought of wiping out the drag marks leading from the surf, but then decided it would be a waste of time.

The men he’d come for did not ordinarily patrol the beach. They might have lookouts closer to their camp—in fact, he would be counting on it—but the compound lay a mile or better from the spot where Bolan stood beside his Zodiac, breathing the scents of Africa.

Some scholars said it was the cradle of humanity. Bolan had not studied enough on that score to debate it, one way or another, but he knew that a lot of what he’d seen in Africa during his several tours of duty on the continent was inhumane. From slavery and genocide, to tribal warfare that persisted over centuries, cruel exploitation by imperial invaders, rape of the environment for profit, famine, epidemics, revolution, terrorism—Africa had seen it all.

And most of it was still continuing, to this day.

Bolan’s concern, this night, involved a band of pirates operating out of Durissa Bay. They were earmarked as his entry point for a campaign designed to reach beyond their local stronghold into quarters where a combination of corruption and extremist zeal made life more dangerous than it had any need to be.

Bolan was dressed in digicam—the digital camouflage pattern adopted for U.S. Army uniforms in 2004—with war paint to match on his face and his hands. Tan rough-out desert boots and moisture-wicking socks protected his feet. His web gear was the “Molly” setup—MOLLE, for MOdular Lightweight Load-carrying Equipment—that had replaced Vietnam-era “Alice” rigging in recent years.

His weapons were the basics for a job on foreign soil. To accommodate the local trend in ammunition for assault rifles, he’d picked an AK-47 rifle that was standard-issue for the Namibia Defense Force, chambered in 7.62x39 mm. The GP-30 grenade launcher attached beneath its barrel added three pounds to the weapon and fired 40 mm caseless rounds. Native soldiers and police used a variety of semiauto sidearms chambered for 9x19 mm Parabellum bullets, so Bolan had chosen a Beretta 92-FS to fill his holster, its muzzle threaded to accept a sound-suppressor. When it came to cutting, he had gone old-school, selecting a classic Mark I trench knife with a blackened double-edged blade and spiked brass knuckles on the grip. Aside from the GP-30’s caseless HE rounds, he also carried Russian RGN fragmentation grenades—short for Ruchnaya Granata Nastupatel’naya—with a kill radius of between twenty and sixty-six feet and dual fuses for detonation on impact or after elapse of four seconds, whichever came first.

Because he couldn’t trust the moonlight on a night with scudding clouds, Bolan also wore a pair of lightweight LUCIE night-vision goggles that turned the landscape in front of him an eerie green. Manufactured in Germany, where night-vision devices had been pioneered during the Second World War, the fourth-generation headgear offered a crystal-clear view of the beach and the river that Bolan would be following on foot to reach his target.

After a quick stop to make last-minute preparations on the river’s southern bank.