vessel together. The top of the container had been cut off, and the four sides fell away with a tremendous clang to the foredeck of the steamer.
Bolan simply stared.
“Do you like it?” Ming clasped his huge hands together and looked at Bolan expectantly.
“I…” Bolan opened his mouth and closed it.
“I listened with great interest to your story of how you used your yacht as a pirate trap,” Ming gushed, “and the lesson of the British Q-boats in the World War II.”
“I can see that.”
Ming raised a hesitant eyebrow. “You do know how to load and fire a 106 mm recoilless rifle?”
“I do,” Bolan said.
He now had six of them.
Bolan stared at the tiny armored vehicle that squatted on deck. What Bolan was looking at was a former United States Marine Corps Ontos tank destroyer. Ontos was a Greek word that literally meant “thing.” It was an apt description. The tank was barely taller than Bolan, himself. At twelve-and-a-half-feet long and eight-and-a-half-feet wide, it was not a tank so much as a tankette. The most remarkable thing about the Ontos was the steel arm sprouting from each side of the tiny, open turret, each of which held three, externally mounted 106 mm recoilless rifles on stalks.
It looked ridiculous, but undeniably hostile.
Bolan eyed the Ontos critically. It had to be at least fifty years old. The thin steel hull was streaked and pitted with rust. A black welding line ran the circumference of the top hull. Both of its tracks were gone, and it sat chalked in place on its road wheels. However, the guns appeared to be in decent condition. “Does it run?”
“No.” Ming gestured at a tiny man in a stained coverall. “My mechanic, Fung, says the engine is hopelessly corroded.”
Bolan let out a long breath. “The guns will have to be manually traversed.”
“So says Fung,” Ming concurred.
“Where did you, uh…” Bolan shook his head. “Get it?”
“A Vietnamese associate of mine sold it to me a year ago. The Vietnamese army captured it from you Americans long ago. With the engine gone, the Vietnamese had intended on using it as a static field gun. However, moving it to any place of use proved prohibitive, so it languished for decades in a warehouse in Da Nang. I had thought to strip it of its cannons and sell them but…” Ming gazed upon the six barreled monstrosity and sighed. “But I became fond of it.”
Bolan reserved comment. Ming Jinrong was a very complicated man.
“The Viet Cong greatly feared it, you know. When all six barrels were loaded with ‘beehive’ ammunition and fired together, it was said to be able to clear a quarter mile of jungle. The Marines called it the rolling shotgun.
“The problem was that each of the six recoilless rifles were externally mounted on a stalk, which meant that once it was fired someone had to go outside the tank and reload it by hand. However, for a first salvo it was capable of incredible firepower.” Ming paused once again to admire the Ontos.
“Your Q-boat!” Ming spread his arms, encompassing the ancient, rusty steamer and the equally decrepit armored vehicle squatting on the bow. “I have named her Flawless Victory.” He gazed at Bolan expectantly again. “Do you like it?”
Bolan nodded. “I love it.”
“I am so glad.” Ming sighed.
“We have 106 mm shells?” Bolan asked hopefully.
“Oh, we have an assortment.” The gangster glowed. “I have a crew ready and shall give you twenty of my best men. You shall have to train your gun crew at sea.” Ming gazed proudly at what he had wrought. “We sail with the tide.”
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