Armed Response

POWER PLAY

Funded by an American oil company, a rogue general sets out to stage a coup in the drought-stricken Republic of Djibouti. Once the man’s soldiers have forced the region into civil unrest and assassinated the political leaders, he intends to take control and oust America from its only sub-Saharan military base.

That’s the plan. A plan Mack Bolan must put a stop to. Joined by a burned-out CIA agent and an aid worker, Bolan targets the US financier and the mercenaries they’re bringing into the country. Hunted by the police and the army and targeted by assassins, the Executioner won’t stop until the general and his collaborators face their retribution.

A crack rent the air

The unexpected noise came from behind the Executioner. He turned his head quickly to witness the black canopy opening, then checked the altimeter on his right wrist.

The parachute was deploying too early.

An invisible hand grabbed Bolan by his neck and jerked him into an upright position, his head snapping backward. His hands flew automatically to the risers that would enable him to gain some semblance of control in his descent. They weren’t there, and his terminal velocity hadn’t significantly decreased.

Bolan looked up and cursed. The black parachute, all three hundred and seventy square feet of it, had collapsed and become entangled in itself. Bolan plummeted toward the ground.

Completely out of control.

Armed Response

Don Pendleton

Though I walk in the midst of trouble, you preserve my life; you stretch out your hand against the wrath of my enemies, and your right hand delivers me.

—Psalms 138:7

Threaten the innocent, and I will threaten you. Take an innocent life, and I will take yours. Steal what is not yours, I will reclaim it. No place is dark enough to hide from my wrath.

—Mack Bolan

Dedicated to members of the Red Cross, who leave their homes and families at a moment’s notice to assist those who have lost everything

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

Quotes

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

EPILOGUE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

Djibouti City, Djibouti,

Horn of Africa

Air-conditioning.

Peter Douglas stood in the foyer of the Waverley Hotel and breathed deeply, ignoring the chaos around him along with the dust and dirt that stuck to his sweat-stained face. The temperature outside was already at an unbearable level, while the foyer was an oasis of comfort.

Douglas listened to his partner coughing next to him, trying to adjust to the temperature difference as quickly as possible. Yes, air-conditioning had to be one of man’s greatest inventions and he briefly wondered how the hotel kept it running during these troubled times. But only briefly, only out of curiosity. In reality he didn’t want to know and vowed to return to the Waverley as often as possible.

This day, however, it was business and information that brought the two CIA agents to the uptown hotel on the edge of the Plateau de Serpent, the more luxurious end of Djibouti City, if one could say that living in a famine- and drought-stricken region could in any way be luxurious. Douglas took another deep breath, removed his sunglasses and surveyed his surroundings, wondering if his newly assigned partner, Peter Davies, was doing the same. What a joke that was. Somebody at Langley had to have been having a laugh at the time. Peter and Peter, the washed-out, veteran has-been and the rookie. Let’s put them together in the hellhole of the Horn of Africa and see what happens. Assholes.

The hotel foyer was a chaotic jumble of humanity and equipment. Sports bags and other paraphernalia were piled up against the wall as aid workers and journalists milled around, waiting for rides out of the city to the refugee camps. People were shouting at one another and at the staff behind the reception desk, demanding to know where they were supposed to go. Didn’t the staff know who they were?

Douglas recognized one of the people, a journalist from CNN who thought that Douglas worked for the US Consulate as an aid adviser. He gave a quick nod to the journalist before moving on to survey the rest of the people. Beside him Davies was still busy brushing the dust out of his loose-fitting white shirt and beige cargo pants, besides running his fingers through his hair, mumbling about the heat and how hot it was and how unfair it was that they had to stand in line and be searched, not once but twice. The first search by the Djiboutian military who manned the checkpoint outside, supposedly to protect the hotel and foreigners and then by the facility’s private security, who didn’t trust the military as far as they could throw them. That had taken more than an hour, an hour standing in the searing sun at ten in the morning. Douglas was grateful for the bottle of water that he had brought with him, a bottle that one of the soldiers had wanted to confiscate, but instead had chosen to accept the dollar bills in Douglas’s hand. Dollars could buy food for the family; a bottle of water would go only so far. So, they had passed through both checkpoints and now stood in the beehive of activity. Douglas figured that many of the aid workers were new on the ground, having arrived maybe yesterday, hence all the baggage scattered around. They would be moving out shortly, into the heat, the desperation, the misery of a dying population.

Many people had moved closer to the city from the outlying country. The large US Marine and naval base at Camp Lemonnier had been locked down so that the masses couldn’t storm the gates in search of the food and water they knew the American military had to have. The adjoining Djibouti-Ambouli International Airport was also closed and guarded by the Marines. Only international aid and military flights were coming in and out, but that didn’t stop the desperate from wanting to stow away and find somewhere safer to live. A memory flashed by of a story he had heard about six refugees who were found dead on a flight after it landed in Germany. The cargo hold hadn’t been pressurized, so the six had perished. Douglas shook the morbid thought from his head and returned to the present. Their contact would be waiting for them in the dining room.

He began to work his way through the people and toward the hotel’s dining room, aware that Davies was following him, still brushing dust off his clothes and seemingly paying little attention to his surroundings. Douglas hoped that the rookie was staying alert, that Langley still arranged to have basic field craft taught back home. So far Douglas hadn’t been impressed with Davies. The kid—Douglas couldn’t help but think that of him; the kid was twenty years younger, athletic and talked about computer games all the time—had moaned about everything since he’d arrived a week earlier.

They were not based at Lemonnier; that would have been too obvious. Instead they had a small safehouse not far from the airport. That way it was hoped that they would “blend in,” as if such a thing were possible in the height of the drought. Americans always looked well fed while everyone around them was emaciated. The idea of blending in baffled Douglas. Instead he maintained his cover and did what he could to assist various aid agencies while keeping his ear to the ground for rumors of potential jihadists that wanted to stir things up and drive the Americans out of Djibouti altogether.

“Shit, it’s already hotter than New Mexico out there,” Davies said to him above the general hubbub.

Douglas stopped, turned to the younger man and prodded him in the chest with his index finger.

“Listen, Peter, a French friend of mine wants to meet with me, and we’re here to find out why. You will sit down, keep quiet and learn something. Whatever you do, do not interrupt.”

“Hey! What did I do?” Davies protested.

“Nothing yet. That’s what worries me. Come on, we’re already late.”

The dining room was as busy as the lobby. Douglas craned his neck to look over the top of the crowd. Yes, there he was, sitting in the corner with his back to the wall, keeping an eye on all the movement, besides watching the military checkpoint that was no more than ten yards from the big bay windows. If he saw Douglas, he gave no sign. The CIA agent, with Davies following, threaded his way through the tables toward his contact.

In his late sixties, with a head full of white hair and dressed in a tan suit, Pierre Saint-Verran was immaculately groomed. The man watched Douglas as he neared the table and gave a slight nod in greeting. Then he focused on Davies.

“Who is this, Peter?” The Frenchman spoke English with a slight French accent.

“Pierre, this is Peter Davies, a colleague. I have to show him the ropes, so to speak.”

Davies leaned past Douglas and held out his hand. The Frenchman looked at it for an instant as if it were something distasteful, then reluctantly grasped it. “I’m Peter Davies,” he gushed, shaking hands vigorously.

Douglas pulled out a chair and sat down. Davies released Saint-Verran’s hand and did the same.

“Pierre Saint-Verran,” the Frenchman announced, then ignored Davies, who was already beckoning to a server, and regarded Douglas. “Peter, I do not have much time. I have a very important meeting with several companies later, so I will keep this short.” He broke off as a smiling but harried server appeared and began taking their orders.

Douglas waited until the server had departed. “What’s wrong? You seemed quite worried when you phoned last night.”

“Not worried, no. More concerned. We have known each other for a while now, and I know what it is that you do for your embassy.”

“Hey.” Davies suddenly felt the need to jump in. “We just work for the ambassador.”

“For pity’s sake, shut up! What did I say to you before we came in?” Douglas kept his voice quiet but was unable to hide the exasperation that he felt.

Saint-Verran raised a hand and smiled faintly. “Of course you do. But I am sure the information that I have will be of interest to the ambassador, as well.”

“Please, Pierre, ignore my young and impertinent friend here. What’s concerning you?” Douglas was already troubled himself. Saint-Verran had lived in Djibouti a long time, working freelance as a security consultant for various companies and aid agencies. As a former counterintelligence agent, Saint-Verran knew almost every important person in the country, including the senior officers of the French Foreign Legion stationed here.

“A few months ago—” Saint-Verran paused as the server returned with their drinks. “A few months ago I was approached by a US oil company wishing to explore the north Obcock region. I advised against it, not only because of the bandit raids but also because of the increased tensions between Eritrea and Ethiopia. Many of the people in Obcock originate from those two countries, and ethnic tension is always present. But the two men of the company insisted, so I reluctantly provided them with guides and saw to it that they had the means to get out of the area in a hurry. Ten days later they returned, paid up and left. My guides claimed that the oilmen seemed quite excited when they were up in the mountains.” Saint-Verran took a sip of his coffee.

“What was this company called, and did they find oil?” Douglas asked.

“They told me they worked for a company called Trenchard Oil Industries. I researched the company, and they do appear to be a legitimate business, if a bit small compared to their rivals. As for finding oil, I do not think so. Total, ExxonMobil, Royal Dutch Shell, they have all scoured the country and never found a single drop.” Saint-Verran smiled into his coffee cup, seemingly lost in thought.

“However,” Saint-Verran continued, “that is not why I asked you here. A few days ago I heard a rumor from a source that gave me two, no, three pieces of information. First it seems some sort of military camp has been set up in the same area. It is possibly Eritrean. Some of their people have been looking for a place to train out of the sight of Ethiopia. My contacts within the Djiboutian army know nothing about it, and with the current tension in the city, they have no interest in investigating it. Second, it seems that there are two groups of white men also in the same area. The first group seems to be the Trenchard men, looking around again. Who knows, perhaps they did find something. However, the second group of men is why I called you here. They seem to be mercenaries, training and teaching in that military camp.”

Douglas sat back in his chair and took a sip of water while he analyzed the information. It could mean almost anything. Africa was full of mercenaries. Maybe they were training Eritreans, or any other group for that matter. They could also be training jihadists or pirates, and that would be a concern. Djibouti was of great strategic importance. The Marine and naval base, Lemonnier, was the only one of its kind in Africa, and its proximity to Yemen and the rest of the Middle East increased its value tenfold.

“Have you any idea as to the nationality of the mercs? Are these oil guys in any danger?” Douglas asked.

Saint-Verran smiled again, this time a little sadly as if to say that his intel wasn’t quite up to scratch. “I am afraid that I have no idea who these mercenaries are. The Trenchard men—if it is them—did not return to me for my services. Nor did they approach my competitors. They have not reapplied for visas to enter the country, unless they changed their nationality to French. It is possible that they are in danger, so my answer is yes. If rebels or jihadists find them, then they would be killed or taken hostage. You know how your television loves it when Americans are taken hostage.”

Douglas groaned, and even Davies looked worried at that thought. If these men were Americans working for Trenchard Oil Industries or any other company, and if they were captured or killed, the fallout would be huge. Then he would come under the scrutiny of the company and the ambassador, both wanting to know why he hadn’t acted sooner. This was just what his career needed, another disaster in the making.

Pierre Saint-Verran rose from his chair. “I am afraid that I can offer you no further information at this time, my friend. I am sure that you will be able to learn something for yourselves. Many of my clients are oil companies, and I am sure they will be very surprised to learn of oil being discovered in Obcock. The drinks are my treat.” He smiled at Douglas, nodded curtly at Davies and walked over to the bar to settle the bill.

“What now?” Davies asked. He had already finished his cola and seemed to be wondering if there was time for another before they trekked back outside into the blistering heat.

“We make a report and have these Trenchard guys checked out. The idiots. They probably think this is a backward hick country, where visas don’t apply. Unless they’re French nationals. Then they wouldn’t need a visa. And we have mercs running around. God only knows who they are or what they’re doing. We’d better get back and see what we can find out. Maybe we can get some of our guys to fly a drone up there. Jesus, what a mess.”

Douglas and Davies waited for a few minutes until Saint-Verran had departed. They didn’t want to be too obvious by leaving with him, although Douglas reflected that meeting in such a busy and public room was hardly unobtrusive. Standing up, they observed a white Mercedes-Benz car, its windows blacked out, pull up to the main doors. They watched as Saint-Verran climbed into the back, the hotel’s doorman closing the car door behind him.

“Can he be trusted?” Davies asked, indicating the car.

“About as much as I would trust anyone around here. He knows a lot of what goes on in Djibouti, so, yeah, I think that we can trust him for now. He can be as slippery as an eel and almost certainly has his own motives for passing this intel on to us. He’s probably hoping that we make a mess of things, get the Trenchard men killed and then he can sell the oil information to somebody else. Come on, let’s go.” Douglas began to work his way toward the dining room door, past the bar, Davies in tow.

Peter Douglas had no true recollection of what happened next.

There was a bright flash, followed by an almighty bang.

The bay windows of the dining room imploded, sending thousands of shards of glass into the hotel on a wave of superheated air.

The shock wave hit him hard, sending him up and over the bar. The mirror above the bar, along with the bottles of alcohol and all the drinking glasses, simply shattered, cascading onto the floor.

Douglas hit the ground facedown with a thump, his head slamming violently against the wooden floor. He wasn’t aware of it hurting. A heavy weight landed on top of him, which knocked the remaining air from his lungs. He was partly aware of being wet, wetter than he should be. He moved his right hand along the floor, instinctively jerking it back as a large sliver of glass cut deeply into his palm. Blood flowed from the wound, mixing with the cocktail of whiskey and vodka.

Douglas tried to move, tried to raise himself up but couldn’t. He couldn’t move. His vision was swimming. Were his legs broken? His back? He moved his head to the left and saw that his third hand wasn’t moving. His third black hand. He tried to make it twitch, to make it respond but it wouldn’t. His inner voice was trying to say something, but he couldn’t hear it. He gritted his teeth and listened. Listened intently. The voice, his common sense told him that it wasn’t his hand. It belonged to someone else.

He began to struggle out from under the deadweight, trying to avoid the broken glass. After moments, minutes, hours, he was free of the load. Still lying on his stomach, he slowly turned his head to see who had been on top of him.

The sightless eyes of the dead bartender stared back.

Douglas gradually moved into a sitting position. The world wobbled. He was soaking wet. There had been a flash. Where was the rain coming from? He raised his head and stared directly into the fire sprinkler on the ceiling. As he watched, it stopped, the flow of water ending. Had there been a fire? Where was he?

He realized that he couldn’t hear anything. There was a lot of smoke and a lot of glass. He was covered in it. He raised his hand and caught the edge of the bar and began to lever himself up. His feet went out from under him, and he landed on his buttocks. Again he tried, this time with two hands. He managed to get to his feet, his legs wobbling under him. Using the bar for support, he looked around, trying to comprehend what he was seeing.

He cursed in horror as his memory began to return.

The dining room of the Waverley was gone. The bay windows shattered. Outside the hotel was a smoking crater, where what appeared to be the remains of a white car were burning. Through the smoke he thought he could see what was left of the military checkpoint. Inside the hotel was a scene of carnage and total devastation. Chairs, tables, people had been flung like confetti around the room. Everything was soaked. Nobody was moving.

There was no sound. None.

Douglas raised his cut and bleeding right hand to touch his ear. It was still there; he hadn’t lost it. It dawned on him that he was deaf, hopefully only temporarily. He’d be retired from the CIA if it was permanent. The CIA! Shit! He was with someone. Davies! Douglas heaved himself up and over the scratched and splintered mahogany counter, falling to the other side when his feet failed to keep up with him. Pain returned to his hand in an instant, and he thought he might have yelled from the shock of it. Davies, where was Davies? He had been following right behind him… There! There were his beige cargo pants. Douglas crawled over and found the kid intact. No arms and legs seemed to be missing. The kid was facedown, unmoving. Douglas rolled him over and felt for a pulse. Could he feel one? Were his fingers still working? Then he thought he felt something. As if in confirmation, Davies moved slightly. The kid was still alive.

Douglas coughed and heaved a sigh of relief simultaneously. The kid was still alive. Then he remembered seeing the torn wreckage of a white car burning outside the hotel. Saint-Verran. It had to be Saint-Verran. A car bomb? How had it gotten past the checkpoints? Who had planted it? The mercenaries in the north? Somebody else? It didn’t make sense. Douglas held the kid in his arms and felt rather than heard movement behind him. He craned his neck and saw people entering the room, looks of horror on their faces. He raised his left hand and waved slowly at them.

“Over here,” he yelled. Then all thoughts disappeared as a dark wave overtook him and he fell back onto the drenched floor, unconscious.

CHAPTER TWO

Above Southern Yemen

Loadmaster Terrence Smith almost tumbled from the ladder as he emerged from the flight deck of the Lockheed Martin C130J Hercules C5. He caught himself in time and slid down the ladder into the main cargo hold of the massive aircraft. The noise of the four turboprop Rolls-Royce Allison engines was overwhelming, and he was thankful for his military-grade ear mufflers. The aircraft was currently at fifteen thousand feet, making three hundred knots. That would be changing very shortly. They were about to make their approach to Aden International Airport.

Smith squeezed past pallets of rice, tents and other humanitarian aid, all destined for the Horn of Africa and parts of Yemen. The drought covered vast areas of Africa. Great Britain, along with many other nations, had flown in extraordinary amounts of emergency supplies using a squadron of semiretired Royal Air Force—RAF—transport planes. Aden was often used as a staging point for the aid, where the pallets would be split up and redistributed to various agencies. It was a routine flight. Everything was normal and on schedule.

Almost everything.

There was one anomaly.

The Hercules had a mysterious passenger, a last-minute addition during the refuel in Naples. The orders were specific. The man didn’t exist. He was never on the aircraft, and Smith was not allowed to remember him. He didn’t know who the passenger was or even what nationality he might be, but Smith knew enough to know what the man represented. Special Forces. His ice-blue eyes made Smith shiver. Even from several yards away, the stranger emitted a presence that spelled danger.

The man looked up, pinning Smith to the spot with his gaze. It was impossible to hear anything over the thunder of the engines, yet the commando had heard Smith approach. In the ten minutes that Smith had been away from him, the unknown soldier had applied combat cosmetics to his hands and face; he had also changed into a pure black jumpsuit. The man removed his gaze from the loadmaster and resumed preparing himself. A parachute was already strapped to his back, and a long black gear bag was lying next to his feet. Smith decided this was one guy he wouldn’t want to encounter in a dark alley, even if he was a friendly.