Читать книгу Blood Tide - Don Pendleton - Страница 13

South China Sea

Bolan fought Marcie Mei on the stern deck of the Flawless Victory. The tiny woman fought with a two-and-a-half-foot kris in one hand and a twelve-inch blade in the other. Ming Jinrong stood by the bridge, straddle-stanced and arms akimbo like a judging Buddha. He held a rattan stick like a rod of correction in his right hand. Every mistake Bolan made was pointed out with the baton and punctuated with a blow for emphasis. Ming had invited Bolan to resist correction if he felt so motivated.

Bolan took the blows and learned.

Ming had decided that facing a kung fu master would not help Bolan where he was going. Now that he had a grudgingly admitted “feeble grasp of the basics,” Bolan needed more practical opponents. Mei and Du had been called off the bench. Ming had ordered the woman to “pink” Bolan with her blades when he left himself open, but not to cut him too badly. As a result, Bolan was lumped and bleeding again.

However, Bolan’s swordsmanship with the dadao was rapidly improving.

They had been at sea for three days, and Ming’s soldiers and crew without current duties attended the sparring sessions with the avidness of ancient Romans attending the gladiatorial games.

Wagers were flying from stem to stern.

Bolan was larger, stronger, faster. But Mei?

She was tricky.

Bolan knew he was quite good, but a feeble grasp of dadao basics wouldn’t be enough to save him. Mei’s father had been an accomplished fighter on the island of Mindoro, and he had wanted a boy. A kris had been shoved in his diminutive daughter’s hand at age five.

The Mouse had pinked Bolan twice and was moving in for the kill.

“Ting!” Ming threw his baton down between them to halt the action. The triad lord leaned down as the Flawless Victory’s first mate spoke in his ear.

Mei lowered her blades and raised a disappointed eyebrow at Bolan. “Your bacon just got saved, buddy.”

Bolan didn’t bother denying it. He sheathed his sword as Ming beckoned. “What’s up?” he asked.

Ming’s eyes were alight with excitement. “We can expect company tonight, Mr. Cooper.”

“What kind of company?”

“Well, according to registry, this boat is officially loaded with palm oil headed for Australia. However, in certain circles I let it slip that I am transferring some of my fortune and that this boat is actually carrying a million dollars’ worth of gold ingots and one hundred kilos of opium.”

Bolan nodded. “Is it?”

Ming smiled. “What good is a trap that does not smell of fresh bait?”

“Are we expecting the company I want?”

“Alas, not. Your true quarry continues to elude me.” Ming shrugged. “However, I have found that if you cannot find your enemy, then find his enemy. These people you seek are poaching. They are stepping on established toes and making things hot for everyone. They are making people angry. Perhaps those people know something.”

Bolan agreed. It was sound logic. “So we’re going to get hit by a different pirate group?”

“Indeed.”

The Executioner considered the nature of piracy in the South Seas. “Speedboats before dawn?”

“A veritable armada.” Ming sighed happily.

“Who?”

Ming draped himself across his massive chair. “Why, none other than the Pirate King of the South China Sea.”

Bolan had done a lot of recent research on Southeast Asian piracy. “Rustam Megawatti?” he asked.

“Indeed.” Ming looked impressed.

Bolan shook his head. They had attracted some serious attention. “The Megawatt, himself?”

“So it would seem.” Ming laid a massive hand ruefully upon his breast. “And I fear he is no friend of mine.”

“Tell me what you know about him.”

“He is owned by the Red League, who in turn have paid the old men in Beijing handsomely for his…what was the word the English pirates of old used?” Ming pursed his lips as he savored the term. “Letters of mark and reprisal. Megawatti has official sanction from the Chinese authorities to commit acts of piracy in the China Sea as he long as he kicks profit back up the line.”

Bolan regarded his sword master frankly. Ming was already on the outs with the Red League. “You’re treading dangerous ground,” Bolan said in warning.

“I thrive upon danger.” Ming looked at Bolan, his expression all seriousness. “Indeed, I have languished from the lack of it.”

Bolan shrugged. Ming Jinrong was an interesting man, he thought and then turned to business. “When?”

“Somewhat past midnight I believe we shall be tested.” Ming ran an appreciative eye over Bolan’s battered physique. “I suggest you take a nap.”

It was a good suggestion.

Bolan went below. He and Du shared a small steel cube with two cots and a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. The crew’s quarters of the ancient steamer were dilapidated, but Ming’s servants had scrubbed them clean. Bolan’s weapons and gear took up a quarter of the cell. He had folded his cot and spread his bedding on the floor. The Executioner staunched his bleeding, stripped and sacked out on top of his blankets.

BOLAN STRAPPED HIS pistols to his thighs and his sword over his right shoulder. He scooped up his Farm-modified carbine and he made his way to the bridge. The room was clustered with men carrying automatic rifles. Ming and his men were all dressed for combat in khaki coveralls and red head scarves. His men all carried M-16 rifles and a bladed weapon of one sort or another. Ming, himself, stood among his men with his broadswords strapped in an X behind his back, and a pair of Chinese Type 80 machine pistols hung from his hips like a gunfighter.

“Ah!” He looked up as Bolan came in and handed him a red scarf. “For identification.”

The Executioner tied the red silk bandanna around his head. He suspected he and Ming’s forces looked more like pirates than the approaching pirates did. “Where’s my gun crew?”

Fung and his four men marched in on cue. They looked from Ming to Bolan expectantly. They were well drilled. They had fired the four inert training rounds in Ming’s stock and knew how to load, reload and traverse the turret.

Live firing at night was going to be exciting to say the least.

Du and Mei trotted in armed to the teeth. The woman was wearing a black raid suit, armor and carrying her carbine. Du had a shotgun across his shoulders, and both fighters were wearing red scarves.

“Du, Fung.” Bolan jerked his head toward the stern as he put on his headset. “You’re with me.”

The Executioner and his artillery team marched out onto the deck. Bolan climbed the rope ladder, lowered himself into the open container vessel and dropped on top of the Ontos. All six rifles were loaded, three with high-explosive and three with beehive rounds. Bolan squeezed his frame into the tiny commander-gunner’s position in the turret and clicked on his radio. “I’m in position.”