man. They’re burning up the airwaves. I guess when the shooting started, they put out the call for help.”
“Help? To whom? They wouldn’t call the harbor patrol or the navy, there’d be too many questions to answer,” Bolan mused as he dumped his partially spent Desert Eagle magazine, feeding it a few loose rounds to top it off. He reloaded and stuffed some shells into the shotgun.
“I don’t know. I’ve been listening on various frequencies and…radar contact, Sarge,” Grimaldi answered.
“Radar contact?”
“Yeah. Big and coming up under the water. It just showed up. It looks—”
“A submarine,” Bolan growled, and he headed to the stairwell. He paused only long enough to grab the fallen gunman’s rifle and its spare ammo. He slung the weapon over his shoulder on the run, keeping the big Desert Eagle ready to greet anyone who appeared in the stairwell, trusting the shorter length of the handgun in such close quarters.
“Yeah,” Grimaldi said. “I’m running an IFF radar check on it.”
“Probably a Soviet-era sub,” Bolan said into his headset. He paused as he neared the top. “I don’t hear any welcoming crew topside…Jack?”
“No, the entrance to the hold’s all clear,” Grimaldi informed him.
“Keep hanging back and watch out for the submarine. It might have an antiaircraft gun. Soviet 12.7 is more than enough to damage Dragon Slayer,” Bolan stated.
“I know that. Don’t worry, I have TOW missiles locked on the sub,” Grimaldi replied.
“Cripple it and knock out its defenses if you can,” Bolan replied. “I want to be able to figure out what’s going on here. And that sub has all the answers I need.”
“All right, Sarge. I’ll trust your instincts.”
Bolan made it to the deck and transitioned to the dead pirate’s rifle, a Krinkov. A stubby, foot-long-barreled version of the classic AK-47, it was more of a submachine gun than a full-powered rifle, but even without the extra muzzle length, it packed an awesome amount of firepower, throwing .30-caliber slugs at 800 rounds per minute. With three spare magazines, the Executioner was able to hold off a small army.
There was a shout up on the mast, and Bolan spotted three gunmen near the bridge. Their attention, however, was directed off the starboard rail. They had to have seen the submarine as it breached. Bolan shouldered the Krinkov, leveled his front sight and milked the stubby rifle’s trigger.
One of the guards was swatted off the rail, his limp corpse dropping to the deck where he landed in a jumble of twisted limbs. Another collapsed, holding his gut, and Bolan realized that his aim was off. The short-barreled rifle wasn’t as accurate as a full-size AK-47, and that meant that he’d need to adjust his aim for targets as distant as the bridge sentries.
The third one, uninjured, brought his weapon to bear and sprayed the deck next to the Executioner. In the shadows and darkness, he had only Bolan’s muzzle-flash to go on, and the soldier had already shifted position after his first burst. He held his aim high and ripped off another burst. He’d been intending to hit the smuggler in the stomach with the salvo, so he aimed at a spot just above the man’s head. Instead, bloody blossoms of gore flowered on the thug’s thighs and he crashed to the walkway. Bolan cursed, wishing he’d had an opportunity to get a feel for this Krinkov’s sights. He reloaded the stubby rifle, then slung it. Pulling the Desert Eagle, he charged toward the bridge.
Bolan knew exactly where the big .44 Magnum pistol would put its bullets at any range out to 200 meters. He’d reserve the Krinkov for close-quarters mayhem.
Bridge officers threw open the hatch to the command center and cut loose with their own handguns. The Executioner still had ten yards of deck before he reached the steps to the bridge, so he blasted away with a salvo of 240-grain hollowpoint rounds. The devastating slugs crashed into the chests and faces of the pair of officers, smashing the life from them with brutal force. One corpse slid down the steps toward him, but Bolan grabbed the railing, vaulted over the limp form and continued up the stairwell.
Off the starboard bow, a powerful cannon opened up and Bolan hit the deck as shells smashed into the ship’s superstructure. Huge holes, larger than the soldier’s own fists, were punched through the bulkhead, and he knew that it had to be a 20 mm antiaircraft cannon from the submarine. Heartbeats later, a thunderous explosion sounded overboard.
Jack Grimaldi and Dragon Slayer had the Executioner’s back, so Bolan continued on toward the bridge. Another blast resounded on the water as the ace Stony Man pilot slammed another TOW missile into the submarine, this one most likely directed at the screws of the sub. With Dragon Slayer’s computerized targeting systems, and a database of thousands of oceangoing craft, Grimaldi was able to target the enemy submersible where it was most vulnerable, leaving it bobbing and as helpless as a bathtub toy, rather than a deadly threat, or allowing it to escape into the Stygian depths of the ocean at night.
“Sub’s crippled. You’re right, it’s Soviet design,” Grimaldi announced.
“Black market, no doubt,” Bolan returned. He holstered the Desert Eagle, and brought up the Krinkov. He had no time to play with the remnants of the smuggler crew, so he emptied the full magazine into the bridge. A blast of 7.62 mm ComBloc slugs pierced sheet metal and blasted through the confined cabin. Screams of horror filled the air as Bolan reloaded and burned off a second magazine into the command center. He let the empty Krinkov drop to the deck and entered, his shotgun leading the way.
As soon as his shadow fell across the door, a pistol cracked and Bolan ducked. He triggered his shotgun at the muzzle-flash and heard metal clatter on metal.
Captain Tinopoulos glared at the Executioner, his chest and shoulder torn by the shotgun blast. Blood had splashed messily up into his beard, and his handgun lay where it had fallen.
Bolan looked around at the rest of the bridge crew. There had only been two left in the cabin beside Tinopoulos, and they slumped across their consoles, slaughtered by the Executioner’s autofire. Blood dripped to the deck in a drumlike patter.
“You planned on meeting the North Koreans?” Bolan asked in Italian, hoping the wounded captain could recall that language.
“Bastard…” Tinopoulos snarled, blood frothing on his lips.
“You don’t have much time left,” Bolan told him. “But if you want, I can make those last moments hell.”
Tinopoulos spit a glob of blood at the Executioner. It stained his blacksuit. “We can talk in hell, when my allies bring you down.”
Bolan shook his head. “The submarine’s crippled. Listen…”
Tinopoulos lifted his head, and in the quiet cabin, the rip-roar of Dragon Slayer’s automated Gatling guns rolled through the open hatch. Tinopoulos nodded and looked at the Executioner. “The Koreans are dying…”
“You don’t owe them anything,” Bolan told him. “Who were they?”
“They had money to spare. We’ve been sending them bodies, human and cattle, for the past five years,” the Greek captain rasped. “We’d officially rendezvous east of the Son Islands, but they told me that they’d shadow us in the Gulf of Thailand.”
“Why
