Don Pendleton - Final Assault

“You make it sound as if this Pierpoint had some covert help,” Bolan said. “That’s it, isn’t it? All that technology—it was government funded, wasn’t it?”

Spence shrugged. “Partially, and through third parties, most of whom have an interest in seeing the United States of America weaned off foreign oil. Pierpoint’s smart. He knows the ship is a good way of showing off all these previously underfunded projects in one fancy package. Once the money starts coming in, that tub will be stripped for salvage quicker than sin. The problem is, nobody bothered to file off the serial numbers.”

Bolan laughed. There was precious little mirth in the sound. “You’re afraid that if the ship falls into the wrong hands, people will—what?—figure out that the federal government was slipping a few extra bucks to Pierpoint under the table in a bid to undercut certain major industrial concerns?”

Spence looked at Brognola. “You were right. He’s clever.”

“No, just experienced,” Bolan said. He shook his head. “And it’s not a good enough reason. So elaborate.”

“Fine, you want more? Imagine what a savage like Gribov could do with a ship like that. Or Walid. You a movie fan, Cooper? Rule one—never give a super-vehicle to a bad guy. Especially when the vehicle in question is an ocean-going fortress. Which the Demeter is. It can sit out of sight in international waters forever, like the goddamn Flying Dutchman, only instead of ghostly sailors it has a crew of Jihadists or gunrunners or revolutionaries. All three maybe—that’s the worst-case scenario.”

Bolan was silent. The thought was not a pleasant one, he had to admit. Whoever got the ship would be in possession of a state-of-the-art vessel. Brognola cleared his throat. He looked uncomfortable, and Bolan wondered how much pressure he was under to help clean up this mess. “If there were anyone else capable of doing this, Cooper, I’d have dealt them in. But everyone is up to their bootlaces in blood and bullets, and this needs handling soon,” Brognola said.

“How many hostages?” Bolan asked after a minute. That was his main concern. The men and women on the Demeter , crew included, were innocent, and Bolan was determined to see them to safety, if possible.

“At least twenty passengers, but we’re not sure how many crewmembers are helping the kidnappers and how many might have been imprisoned. That’s not counting Pierpoint himself.”

Bolan sat back. In truth, he had decided to take the assignment the minute Brognola had asked him, such was his respect for the other man. But he needed to know the stakes before he went in. “So you’d like me to free the hostages and take the ship back.” Bolan examined the schematics Spence had brought up on the screen, his mind already pinpointing important areas. He wondered how many men the criminal bidders had brought—potentially three or four apiece, at least, if whoever was in charge was stupid enough to allow them to bring bodyguards. That meant the enemies could number fifty or more. He’d faced long odds before, but rarely like this.

“No, we’d like you to scuttle it, frankly.” Spence made a face. “Pierpoint messed up, and so did we when we trusted him not to. Best for everybody if we wipe the board clean.”

“Best for you, you mean,” Bolan said. Spence shrugged.

“To-may-to, toh-mah-to,” he said, smiling. Bolan didn’t like that smile, but there were innocent people to think about, and he was going to need help to get them out alive. If that included Spence, so be it.

“What do we know about the hijackers?” Bolan asked. “Whose flag are they flying?”

Chantecoq cleared his throat. “They’re not terrorists, no matter how they’re dressed. We know that much.” He handed Bolan several files and a handful of grainy photographs. “We caught faces with that last drone survey. They’re careful, but after a few days, even the most careful are due a slip. Their leader is suspected to be Georges Garrand. Former member of the Foreign Legion, former contractor for several Eastern European governments, including a leader currently in exile. Until recently, he was employed by Pierpoint Solutions as a security consultant. He was responsible for most of the security measures on the ship. Pierpoint fired him personally just after the Demeter set sail.”

“Fired him?” Bolan asked.

“By social media, no less. For all the world to see,” Chantecoq said, gesturing grandly. He smiled thinly. “Clever, no?”

Bolan didn’t reply. He flipped through the file. It was nothing he hadn’t seen before. Garrand was a mercenary. A very effective mercenary, but then, he’d fought those more than once. Still, Garrand was no thug—he was a decorated soldier with medals for bravery and a reputation for getting the job done. It was clear that Garrand was no saint, but neither was he the sort of man content to play hired gun for very long. As Bolan scanned the papers and photos, the meaning behind Chantecoq’s words finally registered. He looked up. “He was fired publicly? Why?” Bolan answered his own question a half second later. “To divert suspicion that this was an inside job.”

“That’s the working theory,” Ferguson said, running his palms over his head. “We’ve had Pierpoint’s domestic operations under investigation for several months. When we started looking into the Demeter project, it rang all sorts of bells. Too many wrong names too close to a project like this.”

Bolan nodded. “Like Garrand.”

“And a few others,” Ferguson said. “All of whom have records longer than my arm. Once we started digging into them—and Demeter ...”

“It alerted us,” Chantecoq finished. “We are very interested in Mr. Garrand. He’s on our list. So we started to investigate as well, which alerted our American cousins.” He gestured to Spence.

“And here we are,” Spence said, spreading his hands. “Bouncing a hot potato back and forth until it landed in Hal’s lap. Sorry, Hal,” Spence added. He didn’t sound sorry.

Bolan resisted the urge to shake his head. All these government agencies only seemed to make the situation more and more complicated.

“Stuff your sorries in a sack,” Brognola grunted as he shoved an unlit cigar between his teeth.

“So, what do you want from me?” Bolan asked.

“We’ve got a boat that’s too high profile to stay above the water line, full of hostages and crewed by the lost and the damned,” Spence said. “Saturday morning serial territory, huh, Cooper?”

“Depends. How am I getting on the Demeter —jet pack?” Bolan asked, already thinking. He would need explosives, not many, placed at the correct points. Every structure had its weak spots, and the Demeter was no different. Once the ship started taking on water—

“Ha! No,” Spence said. He brought up a map and tapped a dot on the screen. Bolan recognized the Somali coastline. “This is Radbur. Old town on the coast of the Republic of Somaliland. Right on the Gulf of Aden, within spitting distance of our merry band of hijackers and the Demeter . Mostly fishermen. And these days, where there are fishermen, there’ll be pirates.”

“And you happen to know one of these pirates?”

“Indeed I do,” Spence said. “His name is Axmed. He was a pirate before it was popular and a smuggler in the off season. The Somaliland Navy has a price on his head, as do the Ethiopians, but he’s a relatively friendly guy.”

“Relatively?” Bolan asked.

Spence ignored him. “Axmed owes me one. If I know him like I think I do, he’s been eyeing the Demeter all this time. Hell, he’s probably already planning to try for it, especially given the traffic we’ve registered going in and out of the region. I bet some of Garrand’s guests went through Radbur on their way to the Demeter . That town’s been a smuggler’s paradise since the pashas were in power.”