Read Online The Janson Command by Paul Garrison - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paul Garrison
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can and you will. Radio your captain that we will catch up with his ship. Tell him to stay fifty miles off until we get there.” That would put the ship well beyond Isle de Foree’s territorial sea and contiguous zone.
“I don’t know how long he can stall. There are schedules, rendezvous.”
“He can wait eight hours,” said Janson, and Hagopian’s agent nodded cold agreement.
Back in the car on the way to the airport, Janson said nothing until Hagopian’s agent finally broke the silence. “The tanks?”
“What shape do you suppose they are in?” Janson asked.
“Usable,” said the agent. “And, of course, as everyone knows, Isle de Foreens are excellent mechanics.”
Janson nodded. Island people were always good mechanics. “Who will drive them?”
“The presidential guard are Angola veterans. They are no strangers to Russian tanks.”
Janson pondered that. Not that he was looking for a fight with the dictator’s forces, but if he ran into them he had to be prepared.
“May I propose a thought?” the agent said.
“Please.”
“It is possible that Dr. Hagopian might know of some respectable, trustworthy individual at the airport who might have access to some RPG-22s.”
“I would rather Dr. Hagopian know of someone who has access to AT-4s.” The excellent AT-4, a powerful anti-tank recoilless rifle made by Saab, was capable of stopping the Russian-built T-72s. Six warheads and launchers would weigh ninety pounds, the absolute limit they could carry in on top of the rest of their gear.
“I would strongly doubt that AT-4s could be available in time for a rendezvous in eight hours.”
“Would there be any already on the ship?”
“Sadly, no. She is not an arsenal, but mainly conveying legitimate cargo.”
The Russians made the less powerful RPG-26 and there was no shortage of Russian and older Soviet arms in Angola. “Do the gunrunners have any?”
“Not on this run. All they’re carrying are machine pistols, ammunition, and drugs for malaria and infection.”
“Would Dr. Hagopian know anyone in Angola with access to six RPG-26s?”
The agent shrugged. “Perhaps he could find one or two.”
“With HEAT?” A shaped-charge warhead to penetrate the tanks’ armor.
“Yes. But his associate would possibly be forced to complete the order with RPG-22s.”
An older version, out of production since Jessica was in elementary school. Janson frowned. Hagopian’s agent said, “In perfect condition, recently uncrated and thoroughly inspected.”
“I would expect no less of a trustworthy associate of Dr. Hagopian,” Janson said sternly.
Back at the airport twenty-five minutes later, Janson ordered, “Port-Gentil soon as we load up.” The seaport was on the coast of Gabon, which lay north of Congo, and closer to Isle de Foree. Mike and Ed already had their course punched in.
Within the hour a truck with a noisy refrigeration unit backed up to the Embraer and unloaded six dripping crates onto the tarmac in the shade of the plane. Ed and Mike began humping them aboard.
“This is a hell of a lot of lobsters, Boss.”
“Nothing like Angolan seafood,” said Janson.
The pilots carried the crates into the plane before locking up and taking off for Gabon. “How’d you do?” Janson asked Jessica.
“Found a helicopter. How about you?”
“Found out the dictator got tanks.”
SIX
T he Sikorsky S-76 had worked long and hard in the oil patch.
Fresh from the factory, the twin-turbine machine had flown ChevronTexaco executives out to the seismic vessels exploring Angola’s deepwater blocks. When the company started drilling, they replaced the fancy leather seats with aluminum ones and used the S-76 to ferry crew to the floating rigs. Long hours and salt water took their toll, as had dicey landings on sloped and slippery helipads. Eventually the company downgraded the helicopter to cargo runs before common sense dictated they sell it to an independent Italian company that traded it
“I don’t know how long he can stall. There are schedules, rendezvous.”
“He can wait eight hours,” said Janson, and Hagopian’s agent nodded cold agreement.
Back in the car on the way to the airport, Janson said nothing until Hagopian’s agent finally broke the silence. “The tanks?”
“What shape do you suppose they are in?” Janson asked.
“Usable,” said the agent. “And, of course, as everyone knows, Isle de Foreens are excellent mechanics.”
Janson nodded. Island people were always good mechanics. “Who will drive them?”
“The presidential guard are Angola veterans. They are no strangers to Russian tanks.”
Janson pondered that. Not that he was looking for a fight with the dictator’s forces, but if he ran into them he had to be prepared.
“May I propose a thought?” the agent said.
“Please.”
“It is possible that Dr. Hagopian might know of some respectable, trustworthy individual at the airport who might have access to some RPG-22s.”
“I would rather Dr. Hagopian know of someone who has access to AT-4s.” The excellent AT-4, a powerful anti-tank recoilless rifle made by Saab, was capable of stopping the Russian-built T-72s. Six warheads and launchers would weigh ninety pounds, the absolute limit they could carry in on top of the rest of their gear.
“I would strongly doubt that AT-4s could be available in time for a rendezvous in eight hours.”
“Would there be any already on the ship?”
“Sadly, no. She is not an arsenal, but mainly conveying legitimate cargo.”
The Russians made the less powerful RPG-26 and there was no shortage of Russian and older Soviet arms in Angola. “Do the gunrunners have any?”
“Not on this run. All they’re carrying are machine pistols, ammunition, and drugs for malaria and infection.”
“Would Dr. Hagopian know anyone in Angola with access to six RPG-26s?”
The agent shrugged. “Perhaps he could find one or two.”
“With HEAT?” A shaped-charge warhead to penetrate the tanks’ armor.
“Yes. But his associate would possibly be forced to complete the order with RPG-22s.”
An older version, out of production since Jessica was in elementary school. Janson frowned. Hagopian’s agent said, “In perfect condition, recently uncrated and thoroughly inspected.”
“I would expect no less of a trustworthy associate of Dr. Hagopian,” Janson said sternly.
Back at the airport twenty-five minutes later, Janson ordered, “Port-Gentil soon as we load up.” The seaport was on the coast of Gabon, which lay north of Congo, and closer to Isle de Foree. Mike and Ed already had their course punched in.
Within the hour a truck with a noisy refrigeration unit backed up to the Embraer and unloaded six dripping crates onto the tarmac in the shade of the plane. Ed and Mike began humping them aboard.
“This is a hell of a lot of lobsters, Boss.”
“Nothing like Angolan seafood,” said Janson.
The pilots carried the crates into the plane before locking up and taking off for Gabon. “How’d you do?” Janson asked Jessica.
“Found a helicopter. How about you?”
“Found out the dictator got tanks.”
SIX
T he Sikorsky S-76 had worked long and hard in the oil patch.
Fresh from the factory, the twin-turbine machine had flown ChevronTexaco executives out to the seismic vessels exploring Angola’s deepwater blocks. When the company started drilling, they replaced the fancy leather seats with aluminum ones and used the S-76 to ferry crew to the floating rigs. Long hours and salt water took their toll, as had dicey landings on sloped and slippery helipads. Eventually the company downgraded the helicopter to cargo runs before common sense dictated they sell it to an independent Italian company that traded it
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