Читать книгу Rogue Elements - Don Pendleton - Страница 10
ОглавлениеBolan took up his weapon. “Cool.”
“Cool?” Ibarra sneered. “Screw you, cool breeze. Rampart gets the latest German technology. Everything is all HK and gleaming. Viking gets this surplus, Italian, Saving Private Ryan shit. Rumor I heard is the Italians were going to donate it to the Kurds fighting ISIS, and even they didn’t want it. It’s like they’re setting us up to fail.”
Bolan examined his Beretta Model 1959 rifle. It was missing significant amounts of finish. The wooden stock had a crack in the forearm, and it did indeed look a lot like a prop from an American World War II movie except that it took a twenty-round magazine and had a muzzle brake the size of a cigar for launching rifle grenades. Bolan raised an eyebrow, a hopeful note in his voice. “Do we have grenades?”
Big Abe kicked a crate in disgust. “We have bayonets.”
“Cool.” Sifuentes got happy. “Have I told you what Blue does with blades? I’ll take two!”
Bolan nodded at a crate with Italian words on it, and numbers that implied ammo. “Do we get any trigger time, or is that strictly for the job?”
“That’s the good news.” Abe took a bayonet and popped the top of the nailed ammunition crate with shocking hand and wrist strength. “We got two thousand rounds of ammo.”
“Pistols?” Bolan inquired.
“I told you!” Abe growled. “This shit! And bayonets!”
Bolan wasn’t entirely displeased. If the battle was ship to ship, he preferred something with some reach and penetration, and when targets were swarming you there was something very focusing about telling your team to fix bayonets. “We got cleaning kits?”
“Yeah, and web gear.” Big Abe kicked another crate. “Like any of it is going to fit me...”
Bolan sat cross-legged on the deck and fieldstripped, cleaned and lubricated his rifle as if his drill sergeant were timing him.
“Wow,” Big Abe grudgingly opined. The team watched, rapt, as Bolan reassembled the weapon and loaded a magazine.
He rose. “Need a target.”
Big Abe took up the empty rifle crate and hurled it into the ship’s wake. “There you go.”
Bolan watched the aged yellow pine box bobble and churn in the turbulence.
“Yo, Blue.” Big Abe’s features set into scowl mode. “Anytime.”
Bolan would have preferred an optic, but the Beretta’s iron sights were a clone of the WWII Garand rifle’s. Connoisseurs considered them the greatest battle sight of all time. Bolan watched the crate leave the ship’s wake and gently bob on the surface. Ibarra raised a pair of range-finding binoculars. “You’re at three hundred meters, Blue.”
Bolan nodded and gave the sight-adjustment drum a couple more clicks.
“Four hundred meters.”
Bolan waited as the ship sailed away from the crate.
“Five hundred meters.”
Bolan waited. He allowed himself that he was on a ship in motion on the ocean and armed with a rifle he had never shot before. He decided to cut himself some slack. He dropped to one knee. “Tell me when we get to eight hundred.”
Murmurs broke out on the bow.
Ketch gaped. “Holy shit.”
“Bullshit,” Abe declared.
Ibarra lowered her optics in shock and then brought them back up to her eyes. The Viking team collectively held its breath.
“Eight hundred meters.”
Bolan fired.
Ibarra got excited. “You’re about five meters in front of it! Raise you aim and—”
Bolan fired and fired again. The rifle crate spun, bobbed and spit splinters as bullets tore into it. Bolan fired on methodically. Sifuentes jumped up and down waving his arms. “Oh yeah! Oh yeah! Oh yeah!”
The rifle locked open, oozing smoke out the chamber. The crate had been reduced to swiftly dispersing kindling. Sifuentes strutted like a peacock. “My mad, bad, big brother Blue! That’s what I’m talking about! Anyone doubting us now?”
Ketch slowly shook his head. “No.”
Big Abe stared. “That’s fucked up.”
Mendez stroked his beard like a sage. “That was some shooting.”
Bolan nodded modestly. “Thank you.”
Sifuentes was giddy. “He could have done it throwing his knives!”
Mono stepped up eagerly and handed Bolan a fresh magazine. “Teach me!”
“Maybe.”
“You know,” Ibarra said with deadly seriousness, “I just might sleep with you.”
Bolan reloaded his rifle. “Cool.”
* * *
Bolan sipped an ice-cold Stella Artois beer. The team’s mood had visibly improved. Alcohol was strictly controlled on arsenal ships. They were filled with soldiers of all nations, bored out of their minds as they proceeded to proverbially hurry up and wait for their job slots as freighters sailed across the vast oceans at a snail’s pace. However, Team Viking had a job in the morning, and each member had been issued two beers. Another way to relieve bored, disgruntled fighters was to give them trigger time, and the team had burned a thousand rounds at floating targets while Bolan had walked the firing line on the bow and given tips and adjusted sights.
It helped that the cook had a thing for Bolan and had weezed each team member an extra beer and a couple of shots of Indonesian tuak palm wine from the pantry. Sifuentes had been convinced to take a break from his usual death metal, and was playing Mexican club music out of a phone dock and attached mini speakers. There was a lot of laughing and telling tales that kept getting taller. Ibarra seemed incapable of keeping her body from moving to the music even when seated. Bolan idly considered asking her to dance, but he didn’t want to make Abe jealous. Ibarra had noticed Bolan noticing her, and her smile got wider with every drink.
His eyes flicked to the door to the mess.
A second later a huge black man walked in. “Well, looky, looky here.”
Everyone except Bolan jumped in his or her seat. Sifuentes lunged to punch the music off. Mendez and Mono made sad attempts to hide their tuak shots. The man was as tall as Bolan but built like Big Abe. The most startling thing about him were his almost honey-colored amber eyes. They literally seemed to have the power to smolder even while he smiled, and the smile was not friendly. Bolan noted the man was wearing a Rampart Group black baseball hat and openly carrying a Glock holstered on his thigh. The man turned his unfriendly smile on Big Abe. “Abraham.”
The Samoan glowered back, but it was pure, frustrated rage, as if Superman had walked into the room and Abraham was fresh out of kryptonite. “Hyram.”
“Having a little party, are we?”
“Seemed appropriate.”
“Oh, I can think of about a dozen reasons why this is inappropriate.”
Big Abe had no answer.
“You know—” Hyram made a show of sighing and rolling his disturbing eyes “—I keep trying to clean up you Viking assholes. To make something out of you, or at least salvage something of value, and this?” Hyram just let that hang.
His smile turned overfriendly when he looked at Ibarra. “Yo, chica. How long are you going to swim in the tide pool with these losers?” He made a “come to me” motion with both hands and leered. “All you gotta do...”
Fear and rage twisted Ibarra’s features. Bolan took in the rest of the table. It was like some bad Western where the whole town was terrified of the gunfighter who had taken up residence.
Ibarra snarled like she was about to say or do something suicidal. “You know what, Hy?”
Hyram grinned like he was cocking a gun. “What?”
Bolan finished his shot of tuak and set it down on the table a little too hard. “You know, that sounds suspiciously like sexual harassment.”
The only sound was Namzi gasping in terror.
Bolan followed his shot with a pull on his beer. “Doesn’t Rampart have some kind of training film about that? Or someone in Human Resources you can talk to?”
The town was silent as a new gunfighter walked out into the street. Bolan had made his decision when the man had walked in and he had seen his teammates’ reactions. The soldier had won over Big Abe and the rest of the team with charm. The man before him would not be swayed by any charm offensive. He would take it as ass licking, and kowtowing to Hyram would ruin any chances of furthering the mission. The big man leered in false amusement.
“Well, now, you must be Blue. Heard about you. Read the report. I’d call it bullshit, but then again, Sifuentes isn’t known for brains, much less imagination.”
The Latino bristled but said nothing.
Bolan reached into the beer bucket and twisted the cap off. “Sifu saved my life last night. Two of us with knives, five of them with Uzis, and he was Johnny on the spot. Played hot potato with a live grenade, dropped it on the asshole climbing up the drainpipe, then he commandeered one of their weapons and turned into a human wall of lead.”
“Yeah, and what were you doing during all that?” Hyram said, sneering.
“Cutting lunch meat.”
“Well!” Hyram threw back his head and laughed. “All right, white boy!”
Abe slammed a hand on Bolan’s shoulder in warning. The Executioner smiled and ignored it. “That’s white man to you, honey gaze.”
Hyram stopped laughing.
“What’s your claim to fame again?” Bolan asked.
“Forgive me, old man.” Hyram leered again. “You’re new. So I’ll explain it to you. Once. I’m your supervisor. Though these days I feel more like a yard duty at a Montessori School. As a Viking associate, you may disport yourself as you wish while on R & R, as long as you don’t endanger the reputation of the company or your fellow associates. When waiting on station on an arsenal ship or on a mission, there shall be no intoxication. Which, if you had read your contract, puts you in violation, and subjects you to being given a verbal warning, being written up or, should the situation warrant—” Hyram cracked his knuckles in happy expectation “—being subjected to disciplinary measures.”
Bolan nodded. “I get it.”
Hyram seemed almost disappointed. “You get it?”
“Yeah, I get it, but my signing bonus was short, the five connecting flights sucked, and did I mention me and Sifuentes? Our R & R in Salalah was neither restful nor relaxing.” Bolan tossed back the rest of his beer. “So fuck you.”
Hyram stepped forward. “Oh, Blue...”
“No!” Bolan rose and pumped feigned rage as he pointed an accusing finger. “Fuck you! Me and Sifu had knives and liquid soap. They had grenades! Now you want to give me a public dressing-down? I am too old for this shit! Put a weapon in my hand and point me in a direction or send me home with a severance check! You wanna dance?” Bolan took the khanjar dagger from behind his back and slammed it on the table. “Helideck! Knives! Right now!”
Bolan figured he could beat Hyram in a fight—he’d taken down bigger, badder guys than him—and he sensed it had been a long time since the man had been confronted like this. The mood of the mess had gone from cowed persecution to the Roman Coliseum. They wanted to see Bolan open Hyram like a letter, and they wanted to watch the big man bleed out on the big letter H up top. Namzi clasped his chest and gasped like the female lead in a silent movie.
Hyram slowly held up his hands and suddenly turned on the warmth. “Like I said, Blue. You’re new, and I did read Sifuentes’s report. It was a page-turner. And I’ll tell you something for nothing, and I don’t care whether you believe me or not. I told the higher-ups that R & R should be in Mombasa or Mumbai. None of our guys should be unarmed on the Arabian Peninsula with all the shit going on right now. Some bean counter looked at a ledger and figured closer was cheaper. I am going to have that talk with them again.”
Bolan slowly sat down. “I believe you.”
“Well, good.” Hyram walked up to the table and took a beer from the bucket. “Closing time, kids, last call for alcohol. Big day tomorrow! Jobby-job time!” The Rampart Group enforcer of discipline walked out of the mess whistling.
Ibarra shuddered. “God I hate that guy.”
“I was kind of hoping you’d kill him,” Ketch said.
“You know you have mad skills, Blue.” Sifuentes sighed. “But I wouldn’t have bet any pay on you.”
Ketch shook his head. “No.”
Big Abe looked at Bolan in awe. “You were really going to go up on the helideck with Hyram? With knives?”
“Naw.”
The mood around the table deflated slightly.
Bolan produced the other, Russian-made F1 hand grenade he had taken off the dead assassin in Salalah. “I would have just fragged him.” Bolan grabbed a fresh beer. “You don’t give assholes like that a chance.”
Big Abe smiled with childlike delight.
Sifuentes’s morale resurged through the ceiling. “Fuckin’ ay, Bubba! I love this guy!”
