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  Vengeance

  A CHUCK BRANDT THRILLER

  ROGER WESTON

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, dialogue, and plot are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Weston Publishing Enterprises

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 1

  A blast of cool air rushed into the airplane with the suddenness of a surprise attack. Hydraulics whined as the tail ramp of the C-141 lowered and the back doors opened. The plane was flying at sixteen hundred feet over the ship far below. The airplane was not a bomber, but her payload was just as hazardous as a five hundred pound bomb and a direct hit. Chuck Brandt looked down off the rear ramp as he checked his parachute straps. He had been warned that the mission could be hazardous to his health but he’d learned no details yet. First he had to rendezvous with the USS Calhoun County, an LST landing ship.

  He hooked up his static line. The light turned green. A drogue chute dragged a Zodiac off the tail ramp, and Chuck ran after it. He dove off the ramp. A parachute opened over the Zodiac below. A static line opened Chuck’s chute.

  He worked his toggles against a brisk fifteen mph wind. Gusts and high-speed wind could be dangerous, but these conditions weren’t bad. He worked the toggles and aimed for a landing zone a mile ahead of the ship lights. Thirty minutes later, he was steering his zodiac for the stern of the USS Calhoun County.

  The landing ship’s stern gate lowered into the water, creating a ramp right up into the stern of the ship. Chuck pulled his Zodiac part way up the stern, but a couple of sailors rushed to his assistance and took over.

  “Sir,” one of them said, “I’m supposed to take you to the salon. The captain will attend the briefing.”

  “Sure.” Chuck put on his knapsack and slung his gun-bag over his shoulder. He followed the sailor.

  In the salon, a tall man with a long, aristocratic face and a condescending expression stood up as Chuck entered. Chuck stopped and saluted him.

  “No need, Brandt. You’re not military.”

  “That’s alright. It’s a way of showing respect.”

  “Well that’s fine. Alright then, but you’re not in the command structure, so don’t worry too much about formalities.”

  “Yes, sir. Are you the captain?”

  “I’m Seychel.” The man reached out and Chuck shook his hand, but Seychel’s grip was limp and week.

  Seychel gestured to a man sitting at the end of the table and introduced him as Officer Casasante. He was a thin-faced man dressed in civilian clothes. Casasante gave an obligatory nod.

  Seychel said, “Brandt, I’ve heard a lot about you. Why don’t you have a seat?”

  Chuck did so, reluctantly. Something about this Seychel bothered him, and he was already regretting that he agreed to come all this way to hear about a critical mission.

  “I heard you did a hell of a job off the coast of Somalia.” Seychel removed a cigar from his chest packet and tapped it into his left palm. “Rescued a crew of kidnapped sailors.”

  “Half a crew, Sir. The rest were already dead.”

  “Huh. I know.” Seychel lit up his cigar. “I read the report.”

  Chuck said nothing.

  “Like I said, I’ve read your dossier. I understand you’ve been given extraordinarily wide latitude to make decisions and take actions outside of the chain of command.”

  Chuck nodded.

  Seychel blew out a lung full of smoke. “You’ve been granted extraordinarily wide latitude to make critical decisions and take bold actions. I’ll be honest, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Patiently, Chuck listened.

  Seychel seemed to wait for a response but got none. He tapped ashes into an ash tray. “I was taken aback when I saw that you have authority to act as a law unto yourself.”

  Chuck said, “I was told this is very important. I trust you’re going to get to the point and tell me why I’m here.”

  Seychel exhaled smoke. “You’re here because you’re desperately needed. I said earlier, you were chosen because of your track record for saving lives. You’re going to have another opportunity for that, but I’ll warn you right now, it’s high risk.”

  Chuck shrugged indifferently.

  “This is a black ops mission,” Seychel said. “Off the books. Once you leave this ship, you don’t exist as far as I’m concerned. If you’re captured, the president will not come to your aid. He will disavow any knowledge of you.”

  Chuck winced in irritation. “No disrespect, Seychel, but I’ve heard all this before. Are you going to get to the point?”

  Seychel frowned. “Alright, but you will be briefed on a need to know basis. And until you are committed, you don’t need to know anything.”

  “I didn’t come here to shovel walrus dung, sir. I’m committed to serve my country and—as you say—save lives.”

  Seychel inhaled on his cigar. He blew smoke out his long, aristocratic nose and watched Chuck carefully. He glanced toward the thin faced man at the end of the table then said, “Brandt, a cargo ship has been hijacked by Russian criminals. This isn’t the first time. In the last six months, ships from China, Vietnam, South Korea, Panama, and a several others have disappeared. Some of them were lost in bad weather, but we don’t think they were lost at sea. A lot of circumstantial evidence points to a criminal boss named Lenoid Belkin who currently works out of Kamchata.”

  Chuck narrowed his eyes.

  “That got your attention, did it, Brandt?”

  “I’ve encountered Belkin before.”

  “You’re going to meet him again. We think he’s either on the hijacked ship or holed up at a remote compound in Kamchatka. We know where the ship is, but not the compound.”

  Chuck shook his head. “Belkin is a homicidal maniac. If he pirated that ship, you can be sure that the sharks ate well after he assassinated the crew. Don’t expected any survivors.”

  “We have reason to believe there are survivors.”

  “What reason?”

  “Intelligence contact on the ground. I can’t say anything more than that.”

  “Well, that’s not the way Belkin operates.”

  “Maybe he has some reason to vary his protocol.”

  “What reason?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “I don’t like it when someone holds out on me, Seychel? I’m not here to play games. Either you level with me or find someone else.”

  “I’m trying, Brandt. I’m trying.”

  “What about the intelligence contact you mentioned? I need to talk to him.”

  Seychel shook his head. “Not possible. This is a very sensitive situation.”

  Chuck s
tood up. “You’re wasting my time. This meeting is over.”

  “Wait a minute, Brandt. Just sit down.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “Look, I’ll give you an encrypted phone to set up a meeting, but do not blow his cover. He’s an important asset.”

  “I don’t like you, Seychel.”

  “That’s irrelevant. For now, we’re stuck on the same boat. Just hear me out, will you?”

  “I want specifics—or forget about it.”

  Seychel gestured with his cigar. “Officer Casasante will brief you on your landing.”

  Chuck sat down.

  Officer Casasante said, “The Russians have coastal surveillance radars, and we’re monitoring their radio communications. They know we’re out here, so we have to keep moving and maintain the appearance that we’re just passing through the shipping lanes. Once we drop you, we’ll keep moving and hopefully keep any attention focused on us.”

  “I understand.”

  Officer Casasante shoved a photo down the table to Chuck. “This is a satellite photo of the ship, which is docked on Petropavlovsk. You can see a dozen men on deck. There are probably more below decks. We know that Belkin has around forty gunmen working for him, but we don’t think you’ll run into all of them on the ship.”

  “All of them?”

  “No.” Seychel cut in. “We don’t think you’ll run into all of them. At least half of them are probably back at the compound.”

  “Probably?”

  “That’s right, Brandt. Fact is, we don’t know what you’re going to run into when you free the crew and sail the ship out of harbor.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  Seychel inhaled smoke and then blew it out. A little cloud rolled down the table towards Casasante. “No, of course not.”

  “This photo shows a dozen men,” Chuck said. “You should be sending in a SEAL team, not me.”

  “We don’t have a SEAL team available. We have you. That’s why we brought you here.”

  “Well, you didn’t think it through, Seychel. You’re describing a suicide mission.”

  “I’ve read your dossier, Brandt. You’ve pulled off rescues like this before.”

  “Every situation is different. Maybe I’ve learned not to take poorly-conceived missions like this.”

  “Wait a minute, Brandt. We didn’t fly you all the way out here because we had other options. We need you.”

  “Well, that’s too bad, Seychel, because I don’t like the looks of this.”

  “We need you, Brandt.”

  “No, you don’t. You’ve got marines right on this ship. Send in a team. They’ll have the firepower to get the job done. Belkin’s men will be heavily armed and won’t hesitate to use their weapons.”

  “We don’t need heavy firepower, Brandt. It’s not that kind of mission. The president does not want to send in a strike force to stage an attack on Russian soil. International incidents like that are unpredictable. Something like that could be looked on as an act of war. But if we send in a lone sheep dog like you, you’re deniable.”

  “That sounds real good, Seychel. Only problem is, I didn’t realize you wanted to hire me for a suicide mission. I’m not interested.”

  “What can we do to change your mind?”

  “Nothing. You need to get your act together. Count the cost and do the math next time.” Chuck stood up and started out of the salon.

  “Brandt, where are you going?”

  “To the ward room for a cup of coffee. Then I’m going to wait for a helicopter to take me back to Kiska Island.”

  “I can’t stop this ship and wait for a helicopter,” Seychel said. “We have to keep moving or the Russians will get suspicious.”

  “That’s your problem.”

  “Fine, Brandt, but at least do me the courtesy of looking over this file.”

  “Why? What’s in it?”

  “Just take it with you and look it over while you have your coffee.”

  “It won’t make any difference.”

  “Fine, I’ll send someone down to the ward room in a little while to pick it up. If you’re still not interested, we’ll drop you off in Sidney Harbor in a couple of weeks.”

  Chuck took the file and left.

  In the ward room, he paged through the file and read the transcripts of calls to relatives of the missing sailors. They’d been informed that their husband or wife, son or daughter was most likely lost at sea. Chuck read the transcripts. One of the deck hands on the cargo ship was a mother with three kids at home. He read about how one of her daughters in Panama Beach, Florida had become depressed and would not get out of bed or go to school. Her son in the ninth grade had gotten in a fight when someone joked about his mother’s death, and he’d lost the fight badly. Chuck could imagine their pain and devastation, as well as all the other families. He had lost his wife a couple of years ago. He felt the loss now with fresh pain.

  Holding a fresh cigar, Seychel entered the ward room and walked up to Chuck’s table.

  “You’re our only hope, Brandt. Will you reconsider? If we don’t drop you off in the next twenty minutes, it will be too late because we’ll be too far south. We can’t turn back due to orders. Will you do it?”

  Chuck sipped his coffee. “How long has the ship been in port?”

  “Twelve hours. That’s a while, but we think the crew is still onboard.”

  “And what if they aren’t?”

  “Then you’ll have to find out where Belkin’s compound is. Will you help us? We have to move fast or those families are never going to see their loved ones again.”

  Chuck shook his head. Then he said, “Alright, but I need to move fast.”

  ***

  With the help of a sailor, Chuck dragged his Zodiac toward the huge door at the aft end of the well deck. They paused momentarily as the door lowered down into the water. Waves now swept into the well deck and pounded the door. Waiting for the right moment between waves, Chuck pulled his boat down the ramp.

  He loaded into the Zodiac and allowed his craft to fall back in the USS Calhoun County’s wake. The sounds of waves slapping her bow and water slipping along side of the ship were almost drowned out by the pouring rain. Chuck tested the engine and then threw off the bow line.

  With rain shrouded visibility and comforted by the soft hum of the engine, he rode the Zodiac over the long waves. The USS Calhoun County faded away. Forty minutes later, he spotted the coast of Kamchatka, which was Russia’s remote far eastern land.

  Within another hour, he’d made landfall. He dragged the Zodiac into the forest and hid it under branches and a cluster of fallen trees in a narrow ravine. He also sent a radio signal to a friend named Dolphus Crow. Waiting for offshore in an attack boat, Dolphus would assist in Chuck’s extraction in forty-eight hours—if Chuck survived that long.

  CHAPTER 2

  Petropavlovsk, Kamchatka, Russia

  Chuck walked along the street above Avacha Bay, surveying for the third time his approach to the cargo ship. The assault was about to happen. His plans were carefully laid. Every detail had been worked out, every contingency accounted for. Of course he knew from experience that nothing ever went the way it was supposed to. He’d prepared thoroughly for the attack. Rehearsed mentally. Reminded himself that the lives of two dozen men hung in the balance. Not just any men either. Forgotten men. Abandoned men. Castoffs.

  They probably should have sent in a SEAL team for a mission like this, but they had more important things to do than shoot up a Russian port and cause an international crisis.

  The lost crew, after all, was made up of unimportant men. Merchant sailors. Nobodies.

  Men like Chuck Brandt.

  So Seychel, his CIA liaison, had sent him into an impossible situation—to die, maybe. To save a crew of sailors. For this job a sacrifice was required. And if the lamb was bloodied and crushed, it really didn’t matter. It was an acceptable risk.

  The risk had to be taken because they didn
’t want to send in a SEAL team and provoke Russia into a military response. So they sent in Chuck Brandt.

  To Chuck’s bosses in CIA, saving the men was secondary. Despite his reputation, he was confident that the higher ups did not believe that he could possibly take out a death team, save twenty-four sailors, and get out of there alive. What they desperately needed was for someone to try.

  As Chuck walked along the narrow road, he glanced at the massive volcano across Avacha Bay. Volcanoes didn’t worry him. He was more concerned about an eruption of violence when he boarded that ship.

  And that was about to happen.

  The moment he stepped foot on the steel deck, he would be walking a thin line between life and death. He would be outnumbered. The history of warfare testified that larger forces had the advantage. At least Chuck understood counter moves.

  Still, he didn’t like his odds.

  He thought about the real reason he was sent here. Not the men. That’s not why they had intercepted him in the parking lot of Walla Walla prison, where he’d been counseling prisoners on how to overcome problems and find employment after their release. His handlers had something else in mind—something much, much more important, from their perspective. When they’d told Chuck about it, he couldn’t believe it. Now, he put all this out of his thoughts.

  He reached under his black leather jacket and unsnapped the thong on his shoulder holster. He nodded to a group of Russian soldiers as they passed him going in the opposite direction. They looked tough, and he knew all about their training. They were tough. They were the kind of guys he never wanted to mess with if he didn’t have to.

  His mind flew over his situation, but his mind reached back into history. He was reminded not of David and Goliath, but of a more recent conflict. The Battle of Lepanto in 1571 was a crucial naval battle in the Ottoman-Habsburg Wars. Some considered it to be the most important naval contest in human history—and with good reason. This vicious, brutal battle saved the West from destruction and slavery at the hands of the bloodthirsty Ottoman Turks. The Cypriots had fought valiantly, but they had finally surrendered rather than fight to the last man. That was a crucial mistake.