Bolton's Run

By Michael C ONeal

The mastermind behind the worst terror attack in American history has stumbled upon a 166-year-old secret that is as real as tomorrow’s headlines. One man stands in the way. With his life as a Recon Marine long over, Sam Bolton is as dangerous as he is determined. Just when he thinks his life is going nowhere he was sucked into a whirlpool of terror, mass murder and intrigue so insidious and well planned that it will send the United States and much of the free world into economic chaos.
At first, the FBI thinks that he died in the attack, but when he surfaces, he becomes the subject of a nationwide manhunt. The only way that Bolton can stay alive and out of prison is to bring down those responsible for the worst terror attack in history. Both the terrorists and the FBI soon find that they have bitten off more than they can chew.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael C ONeal
• Release date: Sep 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463420041

Michael C ONeal

Michael C O’Neal or Mike as his friends call him is new to writing books but not new to writing. The plot for the first book started to take shape many years ago but until he retired he didn’t seem to have the time that he knew would be needed. Writing a book was more of a bucket list idea at first but now has become an obsession. Having spent a long career in computer systems engineering, he uses his life experience plus a firtle imagination to develop unique plots. He was born and raised in the Ozark Mountains of North Arkansas but lived in Texas and Louisiana where he worked for a computer manufacturing company for many years before starting his own computer business. He and his wife of fifty-two years now live in rural south Mississippi.

Book preview

Newton’s third law states that for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Obviously, Newton’s law doesn’t apply to mankind. The following events stand as indisputable testimony that in all our time on earth, we haven’t learned a thing.

There is at least a million ways to get killed. Minh Trang was completely unaware that he had just found one of them. For Minh, this decision had everything to do with his desire to frustrate his father with no regard for common sense or safety. His dad, who had been born seven months after his parents arrived in this country, was like most who immigrated to America after Viet Nam. He studied hard, worked harder and became a successful part of American society.

Minh had overheard his dad say. The boy needs to be tough to make in this world…get rid of those damn video games and play real sports. So there he stood. Doing what the coach told him. He wasn’t sure why he needed to lean into the pitch, keep his bat level, make him pitch to you, watch him closely, and be the ball all at the same time. He leaned into the batter’s box just like the coach had told him. The next thing that he heard was the unforgettable ‘thunk’ as the ball bounced off his helmet. He stood frozen in time while trying to focus his eyes until the umpire finally shook him and said, Take your base. From that point forward he refused to stand close enough to get hit, even by the pitcher on the Tigers team, who was notoriously wild.

To say that Minh had no athletic ability was to overstate the obvious. When he struck out, which was most of the time, his father would say, OK, boy, now go sit with your sisters. After years of humiliation, the result was an angry young man with a bad attitude.

While most of the young men in the close knit community were working in family businesses, he was daydreaming about any and every thing that popped into his mind. He even dreamed about working hard and getting rich like his uncle, but dreaming was about as close to hard work as he came.

Daydreaming was what he was doing when he heard the GPS beep indicating that they had reached the waypoint twenty two miles south of the Mississippi River Gulf outlet. He leaned over and pushed the reset button and eased the throttle back which caused the old diesel to respond with its customary clatter as it slowed to an idle. Minh sank back into the ragged old wheelhouse chair and closed his eyes. The four hour trip down the river and out into the gulf was bad enough in daylight, but worse at night. But right now he was too excited to be in a bad mood.

This tub was the oldest and least reliable of his father’s three boats. He almost laughed when he thought about the name of the boat: Cherry Blossom. Somehow the stench didn’t make one think of a Cherry Blossom. He would catch hell for not cleaning the old tub last week but right now, he didn’t give a damn.

What a pain in the ass. The hull leaked like a screen door, which meant that the rattling old bilge pump barely kept up even when it ran. When it stopped, which was often, he and his cousin Anh usually cursed and tinkered with the damn thing until they got it going again. Sink or swim, boy. That was his father’s favorite saying. He hated his father. All he had done since Minh was a boy was nag, nag, nag.

After he turned nineteen, his father told him to get a job or get out. He hated Shrimping almost as much as he hated his father, but things would soon be different. His dream of being rich enough to get away from his family was about to come true.

He almost fell from the chair as he drifted off to sleep but then as he straightened up he thought about his good fortune. It had all started by chance when he had run into Chi at a party. Chi said that his family had escaped from Viet Nam after the war but he hadn’t offered any details. Their friendship had grown out of shared interests; mostly drinking, partying, easy women and days of nothing but playing video games. It was obvious that his friend had money; lots of money. He insisted on paying the bar tab or restaurant bill every time. His place was always well stocked with beer, weed, and women. After a month they were regulars: hanging out, listening to music and partying with some really awesome babes, all courtesy of his new friend.

Things really got interesting about a month ago when Chi asked if he would like to make some real money. Guessing at what Chi was getting at, he said. I’m OK with smoking some weed, but I’ve seen what happens to Shrimpers who smuggle drugs. Chi smiled casually. Nah, that’s not what I’m talking about. Drug dealing is for losers anyway. Let me tell you what I’m talking about. Before continuing, Chi paused as he took a pull on his beer. Here is the deal. All we have to do is borrow your boat, then go to a certain waypoint offshore and wait. Think about it this way. Some refugees want to come here just like your folks did but they can’t get papers. This really isn’t even illegal. It happens all the time. This would be something like…uh, picking up shipwrecked people.

Minh played along. So, what is in it for me? Chi laughed. I thought you would never ask. A big payday, that’s what. Minh was wide awake now. How big? Chi replied smoothly, The easiest hundred grand you will ever make. Minh squirmed. An image of the old boat sinking with fifty people hanging on for dear life popped into his mind. How many people are we talking about? Chi quickly replied. Two. Minh tried to grasp the idea of getting paid fifty thousand per passenger, but before he could ask another question Chi continued. That’s fifty thousand each for two people. Just in case you are mathematically challenged, that is a cool one hundred grand for you, my soon to be rich young friend.

Minh was hooked but he played it cool. Ok, but what then? What do we do with them? Chi smiled as he drained the last of his beer. Simple! We take them to a place along the river north of Venice and drop them off. Minh turned his head sideways. That’s all? Chi continued with an overly dramatic frown. No, not all. Then you collect a cool hundred grand and go on your way. Not a bad night’s work, huh?

So, here he sat. Before the night was over he would be rich and all for doing next to nothing. This was a damn sight easier than dragging the nets all night, then drying and eating the trash-fish on the way back.

He had taken the boat out without Anh or anyone else knowing. He wouldn’t need to explain how he cut Anh out if he didn’t know. Hell no! This was his deal and he wasn’t about to cut anyone in.

Just as he drifted off again, he heard something. At first he thought that he must have been dreaming. As he drifted back into the present time he thought something was odd. He heard it but couldn’t place the sound. He was so startled that he almost toppled face first into the wheel as he saw something coming out of the night like a bad dream. There, through the dirty wheelhouse windows not more than five hundred yards away, he saw the luminescent wake shimmering in the pale moonlight as the prop of an old freighter churned along. "What the hell? So that was the noise! Damn that thing is big! At first he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t heard it before now, but then he realized that he must have been sleeping.

Chi stirred from the bunk just as Minh started to panic as he thought back. Damn it, Chi had insisted that he turn off the running lights. Now they were about to be crushed like a bug. As panic took root in his brain, he tried to remember where the hell he had seen the lifejacket. Crap, he couldn’t remember. Before he made a complete fool of himself, he heard the shlop, shlop, shlop of the giant propeller slow then stop as the old freighter turned into the gentle summer breeze.

He stood transfixed as Chi stepped next to him. Something dropped over the side and then bobbed up on the crest of the next swell. Seconds later he saw the outline of two dark figures rappel down the rust-stained side of the old ship, then drop into what must be a small rubber dingy of some sort. They were soon followed by a dark colored bag. It all made sense. The bag probably contained all the worldly possessions of two poor refugees. He was dead wrong, but he didn’t know how wrong yet.

As soon as the little boat pulled away from the ship, Minh heard the clank and whoosh of machinery followed by the shlop, sholp of the giant propeller as the old freighter started to turn slowly back on course. He sat mesmerized as he watched the ship slowly gain speed as it disappeared into the night like a ghost.

Chi suddenly seemed to realize what was expected of them as he sprang into action like a man waking up from a trance. He nudged Minh and nodded toward the boat. Go! Minh engaged the I|O drive and bumped the revs to twelve hundred as they turned toward the boat. Getting rich was going to be a piece of cake.

Four hours later he eased the old shrimp boat in as closely as he could to the west bank of the river near Ft. Jackson, Louisiana. He could almost taste what being rich was going to be like. He could imagine the bundle of money which would soon be stashed in his newly rented safe deposit box. For the first time in his life he would be rich and no one would know.

As they reached the point where the lights of Fort Jackson were visible, the two passengers were ready. As Minh nudged as close to the rocks along the bank as he dared, the two immediately slipped the raft into the muddy river and disappeared into the night without a word.

They didn’t have long to wait. As Minh backed the boat into the current, he saw the headlights of a van as it pulled into the state park which is located seventy miles south of New Orleans.

The faces of the two new passengers gave away nothing as they drove from the flat grassland of the delta into the bright lights of the west bank of New Orleans. The safe house, which was on a quiet cul-de-sac, was strategically located. From here, the two agents could move up and down the entire west bank levee system with very little chance of being noticed. They would be just a couple of foreign tourists enjoying a walk on the levee.

They were pleased to find that someone, presumably the man and woman who had picked them up, had already stocked enough food, water, weapons, ammunition and electronics to complete the mission. After a quick tour of the safe house, they received final instructions. They were to expect two 30 caliber machine guns and two anti-tank type weapons within the next two weeks. Anything unusual was to be communicated via the scrambled satellite phone using special codes which they had already memorized.

Their glorious country had suffered because of American imperialism. The American pigs were going to pay. They had watched their children go hungry because of the so-called sanctions. Then that fool who called himself their leader was about to give it all away. Now the Americans would see what real sanctions were. Down river Minh and Chi docked the boat just after daylight and cut the clattering old diesel for the last time, then drove to Chi’s place in Belle Chasse. As soon as they were inside, Chi smiled at Minh. Pay day, my friend. You are a rich man. Minh watched in anticipation as Chi opened the cabinet door and pulled something from under the sink. Instead of money what he saw was the gaping barrel of an automatic pistol aimed at him. It turned out that getting killed was a lot easier than getting rich.

Chapter 2

As the seagull flies, Fort Jackson State Park is less than seventy miles across Barataria Bay from Golden Meadow, Louisiana. That is where a man sat alone at the back table of the dingy bar and grill. There was nothing worth noticing about him, at least at first glance. He was dressed in an old Denim shirt with a drilling company logo and faded Levi’s. The logo meant nothing since it was one of hundreds of such companies that came and went in south Louisiana.

The Bayou Bar and Grill wasn’t anything special either, but then he hadn’t chosen it because it was special. He didn’t stop here because he cared about this place. He didn’t. This joint was pretty much the same as all the others in Golden Meadow Louisiana. At least that would have been true on most nights. So, he sat alone at the back table of the dingy bar and grill nursing a stale beer as his life ticked away.

Maybe the Saturday night crowd was a little more drunk and loud than usual for this early. He didn’t know or care that the Bayou was known to law enforcement as the unofficial hangout of some local boys who were bad to the bone. It wasn’t a place where decent folks wanted to be anytime, much less on a Saturday night.

A three piece Zydeco group called Blind Jim Leflieur had just cranked up. The lead singer and guitarist, probably Blind Jim, along with an accordion player and a base player made up the group. After listening to the first two or three songs, he turned back to staring at his beer as most of the other patrons continued to get drunk and loud. A music critic might have said that the name Blind Jim had something to do with the way the group played, but then music critics didn’t stop at the Bayou anyway.

The hometown crowd paid little attention to the music, with the exception of a couple who were dancing between the bar and tables near the back. At times they came close to doing more than dancing, but no one seemed to notice. They were so intent on each other that they hardly noticed the occasional glances and snide remarks from the table of rowdies nearby.

The Landry brothers and three other local boys had pulled two tables together and ordered maybe their tenth round, but who’s counting. These five made up most of the group that was known locally as some of the worst in this small town. Drugs, guns, nasty women and a wide range of petty crimes made life interesting for them. They enjoyed the reputation that they had cultivated from the time they were in junior high school. They made the most of being bad-boys by making life miserable for the decent folks in Golden Meadow. They often broke the monotony of small town life by practicing their own brand of petty criminality, which included some good old-fashioned mafia tactics.

Sam Bolton wasn’t one of the regulars. He wasn’t from the bayou. Call it sixth sense, intuition or experience, the fact is he knew that the locals had already decided that he didn’t belong, but he didn’t care about that either. As soon as he walked in and ordered, they had immediately sized him up and confirmed that he was a Texian. The Cajun slang word actually doesn’t have anything to do with Texas but is translated as anyone who doesn’t talk like us.

Jamie, who was the self appointed Mafia Don of the group, motioned for the waitress. Hey, sugar bugger, I got a job for you. Go over and find out who that dipshit is.

Millie had worked in the Bayou for as long as anyone could remember. At one time she had been an attractive woman, but now she seemed to shuffle more than walk. A causal glance at her gave the impression of a worn out old horse just plodding along toward the end of the last dusty row in the field.

Someone once said the eyes are a mirror of the soul. If that is true, her eyes gave away her true self. Having grown old and tired, they were lost in the smoky haze of this hell on earth. They had lost the last glimmer of hope somewhere along the way. The hope of youth, if indeed there ever was any, had faded into the life of a fifty-something beer mule. Some long lost love might have left her stranded in this third rate dump slopping beer for drunks such as Jamie and Beau. Just one more story lost in the pages of small town history.

Despite all that, she still hung onto some dreams. Her secret fantasy was to run Jamie down in the parking lot and watch him bleed to death before calling 911. Instead, she did what she was told. She didn’t relish being beaten and raped by this gang of thugs again, so she went to the stranger’s table. Can I get you anything? The man glanced up without turning his head. Nah, I’m good. It wasn’t much, but it was all she needed. The accent stuck out like a sore thumb. He was a foreigner. She knew that probably spelled trouble. As far as Jamie’s little gang was concerned, he didn’t belong here.

What they didn’t know was that he agreed. Fact is, he didn’t belong in this bar or anywhere else for that matter, but he didn’t give a damn. He had given up on caring a long time ago. Come to think of it, he didn’t even care that he didn’t care. He almost smiled as a thought hit him. What is the difference between ignorance and apathy? "I don’t know and I don’t care.

One thing that outsiders had a hard time understanding was how the locals knew that they didn’t belong. Outsiders were foreigners no matter how long they lived here. It didn’t seem to be a matter of how they dressed or how they looked. Bolton simply didn’t talk the talk, but that wasn’t all there was to it either, since they hadn’t heard him say a word to anyone except the waitress.

It was that special sense that animals have for anyone or anything that doesn’t belong. The Cajuns in this area had developed a keen sense of belonging over the past two hundred years. They knew who did and didn’t belong. We have all seen dogs piss on tires and sniff butts. The five men at the table were arguably a higher order of animals than dogs and a whole lot meaner, but they still practiced the same primal rituals.

They had left more than one man for the gators and turtles in the bayou north of town. As they became more rowdy, drunk and high, the one named Buford suddenly erupted with a string of curses directed at the skinny little thug who sat in the rickety chair on the opposite side of the table. As he lunged toward the skinny little man, his bloated belly hung on the edge of the table causing several beer bottles to overturn. That brought out the version of Jamie that no one wanted to deal with. He went from zero to ballistic in three seconds. Even a casual observer would have almost immediately come to the conclusion that he suffered from acute bipolar disorder which had probably gone undiagnosed from childhood. The school nurse had made an effort, but only managed to get him started on Ritalin which eventually led to bigger and better drugs.

As Jamie erupted with a string of curses he pulled a small automatic from his belt and aimed it at Buford’s middle. Sit the hell down you dumb som’bitch….and you’re buying the next round. With that both men sat down. Buford sulked while the little man, who looked like he lived on a steady diet of pickles, smirked in satisfaction. He had succeeded in getting Buford in trouble. His smirk grew into a grin as he mumbled under his breath. Yo turn for the next shit detail, som’ bitch.

So this looked like an interesting night. The music had gotten louder and faster. The couple continued to dance. Women have had babies with less contact. They would probably disappear into some dark corner to really enjoy themselves before the night was over. Anything to relieve the heat and boredom of Golden Meadow in August other than a hurricane would be worth doing.

So here the five tough guys sat with alcohol dazed brains in a dingy smoke filled room. The air, which hung like a blanket of poison fog, became thicker as the music got louder. All the while Jamie continued to work himself into a rage for the record books. By now a lot of the smoke was not from tobacco products, but nobody cared. The place was dingy and dark for a reason. The ancient window unit clanked and rattled every time it started and stopped, but the music was so loud that no one noticed.

As the night wore on, Jamie and Beau become involved in a heated discussion. They spoke more in clicks and grunts than Cajun French or English so there was no real danger of anyone overhearing their plans. They had considered several possibilities. Maybe he was an oil worker who had time to kill or maybe he was a Narc who thought that he was a super sleuth. It didn’t really matter who he was. Jamie was getting pissed. But then, Jamie didn’t need a reason to be pissed. It was his normal state of mind.

He suddenly seemed to make a decision. Jamie did that. He suddenly decided most things for the group whether what he decided made sense or not. Turning to the group he mumbled. That asshole has to go. He is screwing up my night and that is a baaaad idea.

What the others knew was that this was a special night. Jamie had spent the better part of three months running back and forth from Golden Meadow to Houston. He wasn’t about to let some damn foreigner tank the deal now. These were not men to fool around with, even for the Landry brothers. They were about to graduate to the big leagues. At any minute their Houston contact was going to come through the door. He had refused to sell to them before coming to Golden Meadow and checking out their operation in person. Jamie had made the mistake of bragging about how he owned this town. Now he would have to prove it by meeting in his main hangout.

The man had all the right sources and connections with some people in Houston who, in turn, had all the right connections to some people a thousand miles south of there. This would put them in position to run the drug trade in the whole area. The deal was as good as done, but this idiot had wandered in at a really bad time.

Jamie wasn’t worried about getting rid of the stranger. After all, he didn’t look like much. He was maybe a little over six feet tall with steel grey eyes. He seemed to be unaware of his situation. Dumb som’bitch. Jamie had a noticeable scar that ran through one eyebrow and another which ran diagonally across his chin as he walked past the table on the way to the restroom. He had been sitting there nursing a beer for the better part of an hour, way too long for comfort. Everybody knew enough to move on when Jamie gave them an evil stare, but not this fool.

What they didn’t know was that he had not only noticed but sized up, summed up, calculated, and planned for several possible contingencies concerning these five individuals. Then his mind moved on to more interesting things, such as what was going to happen next week in St. Louis.

Chapter 3

He thought back to day before yesterday when things had taken an unexpected turn. Maybe better, maybe worse, he didn’t know. Deep down, he wasn’t sure he really cared. Caring was something that he had forgotten how to do a long time ago in a place far away.

It had been nearly 10:00 AM Friday morning when his prepaid flip phone rang. He had kept the same number when he bought the phone from a discount store last month. Before he made his way down the dingy hallway to his room it stopped ringing.

After the fourteen day shift had ended Thursday morning, he had been forced to ride the crew boat back from the rig, which turned out to be a five-hour