Deadly Coast (28 page)

The co-pilot peered through the sight. The heat-seeker would do the work, but the range was relatively short and he had to ensure he got the weapon close enough to acquire the target. He was intent on his task, undistracted by the sudden chatter on the radio. Only slowly did it penetrate.

“Russian chopper! Abort! Abort!” a frantic voice screamed in Russian. “You are targeting friendlies!”

But he’d already launched.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Arabian Sea
250 yards astern of
Kyung Yang No. 173

Dugan sensed something was wrong and was rising even before the flame bloomed from the chopper.

“Get
DOWN
,
Dyed
,” screamed Borgdanov, as Dugan rose between the two Russians firing at the advancing pirate boat.

Dugan, with no time to explain, placed a hand on the shoulder of each Russian and shoved with all his strength. The surprised Russians cursed as they tumbled into the water, and Dugan threw himself backward over the outboard. He was still in midair when the missile struck. The concussion drove the air from his lungs, and he plunged beneath the surface of the water just as a fireball rolled over it.

Disoriented, he surfaced seconds later, more from the buoyancy of the survival suit than from his own efforts. He felt a strong hand on his arm, and turned his head to find the sergeant towing him toward the charred remains of their deflating Zodiac. Soon, he was clinging to the side of the damaged craft with the two Russians, looking at a debris field where the pirate boat had been.

“Wh … what happened?” Dugan asked. “I was sure he was aiming for us.”

“Maybe he was,
Dyed
,” Borgdanov said. “But
piraty
boat was very near with engine at full power. Our own motor was cooling. So. I think heat-seeker made targeting correction.” He looked at the smoldering remains of the Zodiac. “Even so, was very close. Being underwater and in suits saved us, I think.”

Dugan looked up, searching the sky.

“Let’s hope the chopper doesn’t come back to finish the job,” he said.

Kyung Yang No. 173
Arabian Sea

Oblivious to the VHF squawking demands that he identify himself, Anisimov watched in horror through the wheelhouse window as the fireball erupted on the sea behind him. Then as the fire dissipated, he saw an orange head bob to the surface, then two more, and all three moved to the charred remains of the first Zodiac. Relief flooded over him, and he heard the radio for the first time.

“—demand you identify yourself at once. Over.”

Anisimov started to key the mike, then stopped. He looked down at his black utilities, devoid of rank markings but clearly Russian Special Forces. Instinctively, he touched the Russian tricolor flag patch on his shoulder. The Russian government didn’t particularly like it when their elite soldiers resigned to become private contractors, and Anisimov and the others had done so under assumed names. And he was quite sure that Russian officials would like it even less if they knew that private contractors were impersonating active-duty Russian personnel. When Major Borgdanov accepted the assignment, the clear understanding was that there would be no possible contact with regular Russian forces. This could be tricky.

Anisimov stared at the mike. What did the major always say? Ah yes, when your back was to the wall, attack! Surprise assault is always the best defense. He walked to the wheelhouse window, where his uniform was visible to the hovering chopper and keyed the mike.

“Russian helicopter over my position! Identify yourself at once! Over,” he said.

“This is flight Bravo Three from Russian naval vessel
Admiral Vinogradov
. I say again. Identify
yourself
,” came the reply.

Anisimov ignored the request. “What is your name and rank?” he demanded.

“
Identify yourself at once.
Over,” the chopper pilot said.

“Very well,” Anisimov said. “This is Colonel Alexei Vetrov, Federal Security Service, Special Operations Group Alpha. Now. What is
your
name and rank? Over.”

There was a long pause before the pilot responded, his voice tentative.

“Th … this is Captain Lieutenant Ivan Demidov,” the pilot said. “Wh … what are you doing here, Colonel, if I might ask?”

“
Nyet
! You may
not
ask,” Anisimov replied. “We are on classified mission, involving something you may have seen on way here. Beyond that, I cannot discuss on open radio. Is this clear, Captain Lieutenant Demidov?”

“
Da
, Colonel,” Demidov said. “Do … do you require assistance? Would you like us to pick up the three men in the water?”

Anisimov hesitated and looked back at the charred Zodiac, and then around the fishing boat. Major Borgdanov and company seemed to be all right. The fishing boat was in bad shape, but if it sank, the Russians were nearby and he could always put out a distress call before taking to the raft. Better to get the chopper away for now.

“
Nyet
, Captain Lieutenant. Not at this time,” Anisimov said. “What is your mission?”

“To rescue Korean fishing boat and arrest
piraty
,” the pilot replied.

“Consider the first part of your mission successful,” Anisimov said. “But I believe most of the
piraty
are escaping as we speak.”

“We’ll catch them, Colonel,” said the pilot. “Though I suspect they’ll all be killed resisting arrest.”

Anisimov paused. He had no idea what had transpired on the drillship, nor if any of the pirates had been exposed to the virus. If they had, the results could be catastrophic. If they hadn’t—well, they were still murdering pirates, weren’t they?

“That outcome would be … helpful to our mission, Captain Lieutenant,” Anisimov said. “In fact, it would be most helpful if these
piraty
disappeared without a trace. Is my meaning clear?”

“What
piraty
, Colonel?” the pilot asked. “Now, if there is nothing more, we’ll undertake routine patrol to north and return to ship.”

Thirty minutes later, Dugan and the two Russians sat in the charred, half-deflated Zodiac alongside the listing
Kyung Yang No. 173
. The seas had abated to a slight swell, and the two stricken vessels drifted side by side, tethered by a single thin line. Anisimov stood on the canting deck of the fishing boat and tossed Sergeant Denosovitch a plastic jug, as Dugan and Borgdanov opened cans and sloshed clear liquid around the crippled inflatable.

“That ought to do it,” Dugan said. “We’ll leave the rest of the stuff in the cans. It’ll go up quick enough when it all starts burning.”

He surveyed their handiwork. The air was thick with the pungent smell of paint thinner, mineral spirits, and whatever other flammables Anisimov had scrounged from the paint locker. They’d splashed it all over the boat until it puddled on the floorboards, and then stacked open cans of the liquid that remained in the middle of the boat.

“You got the bleach, Sergeant?” Dugan asked.

“
Da
,” the sergeant said, and held up a large plastic jug in each hand.

“Let’s get to it then,” Dugan said, reaching for one of the jugs.

The three took turns helping each other douse the outsides of their survival suits with bleach. When all the suits were thoroughly wetted, Dugan nodded, and the men stripped the suits off and tossed them over the cans in the middle of the boat. Their underwear joined the pile, and they leaped, naked, to the deck of the fishing boat.

Anisimov had things prepared—buckets with a solution of strong soap and water, brushes, and sponges. One man stood still while the other two scrubbed him and flushed him with seawater. When they were done with that, each stepped under the powerful flow of the temporary shower Anisimov had rigged by securing a fire-hose nozzle to the handrail of the upper deck.

“That should do it,” Dugan said, as he stepped from beneath the torrent and signaled Anisimov to turn off the water. He walked to the rail and untied the line holding the crippled Zodiac. Anisimov appeared with a flare gun, the other two Russians close behind. Dugan waited until the Zodiac was twenty feet away.

“Do it, Corporal,” Dugan said. Anisimov nodded and fired, and the Zodiac burst into flames.

Isolation Unit
Sickbay
USS Bunker Hill (CG-52)
Arabian Sea

“Christ, I’ll be glad to get out of here,” Dugan said to Borgdanov across the tiny room they shared with the other two Russians.

Borgdanov shrugged. “Is not so bad,” he said. “Is only three more days, and is much better than the two days we spend on fishing boat,
da
? For sure food here is better.” He shuddered. “I am not so fond of kimchi.”

Dugan nodded. He was glad to be off the fishing boat, however impatient he was with the current situation. With his help, the Korean chief engineer managed to get the leak stopped. A call to Ward had done the rest. They set a westerly course for Aden to get them out of the Russians’ immediate operating area, while Ward arranged an extraction. Two days later, a Sea Hawk helicopter had lowered biohazard suits for Dugan and the Russians, not to protect them but to isolate them from contact with others.

They’d been winched aboard the chopper one by one, with Dugan the last to leave. Before going, he’d read the newly cooperative Kwok the riot act, reminding him of the realities. He would be shadowed by satellites and aircraft all the way to Aden, and if he changed course or attempted in any way to contact another vessel, he would be sunk without warning by a cruise missile. Ward’s superiors had been much less reticent about authorizing decisive action after they’d learned what they were dealing with.

Given the speed of the fishing boat, the incubation period for the virus would elapse before the vessel reached Aden, and there she would be met by a medical team to assess the crew’s health before releasing them.

“What about charter and repairs, Dugan?” Kwok had asked. “You promised.”

Dugan had handed Kwok a card. “Mail your bill for the charter and
reasonable
expenses here, and it will get paid, Kwok,” Dugan said, glancing at the chief engineer. “As long as it’s accompanied by a signed statement from the chief here that you didn’t retaliate against him and the other crewmen that helped us.”

“This is blackmail!” Kwok said.

“Your call, Kwok. Money or revenge,” Dugan countered, leaving the little Korean sputtering on deck as the chopper hoisted him skyward.

“Do not worry so,
Dyed
,” Borgdanov said, pulling Dugan back to reality. “We will be finished incubation period soon, and by that time we arrive in Harardheere. Blake says executions have stopped since
piraty
now know about our hostages, and I think it is not bad thing to give them time to think. Like you say in English, give them time to boil,
da
?”

Dugan smiled, despite his mood. “I think you mean, give them time to stew,” he said.

Borgdanov shrugged. “Boil. Stew. Whatever. How you cook
piraty
’s ass is not so important, I think—as long as you cook it.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

M/T Phoenix Lynx
At anchor
Harardheere, Somalia

“QUIET!”
Zahra shouted for the third time, slapping his open hand on the conference table.

Eleven faces snapped toward him, surprised and quieted by the explosive sound. Surprised looks turned to scowls as the men glared down the long table.

“And just who’re you to give orders, Zahra,” one said. “We’re all equals here.”

“Even among equals someone must maintain order,” Zahra said.

The man sneered. “So you’ve appointed yourself. Is that it?” There were grumbles of agreement.

“I appointed myself to nothing,” Zahra said evenly. “When these ships full of our brothers arrived, their captors contacted me. These people made it clear they’ll only deal with a single point of contact. I didn’t seek them. As soon as the situation became clear to me, I called you all here to Harardheere.”

Zahra kept his face impassive and watched reactions as he spoke. In truth, he was elated the new arrivals contacted him first. As the possibilities had occurred to him over the last week, he’d become giddy with anticipation. If only he could pull it off. He sighed inwardly. But first he had to leash this pack of hyenas.

“And now that we’re here, Zahra,” asked another man, “just what would you have us do? We’ve come the length of the Somali coast to gather, and now you propose giving up all of our captives and half the ships. That’s ridiculous. If they give us two ships and a hundred or so captives, we should give them back the same.”

“I’ve been dealing with them for over a week,” Zahra said. “This American Blake is a tough negotiator, and this fellow Dugan who arrived yesterday is worse. He threatens to take all the men to Liberia. He even joked that for ten thousand dollars he could ensure they all get the death penalty.”

“Savages,” muttered a man down the table.

“He’s bluffing,” the first man scoffed. “Western governments will never permit that. Many European governments won’t even turn our captured brothers over to
any
country with the death penalty.”

“But we aren’t dealing with Europeans,” Zahra said. “At least not in name. They showed me papers documenting themselves to be Liberians, but in truth I don’t know who they are. There are both Americans and Russians among them, but I suspect the Russians are mercenaries. It doesn’t matter. As long as Liberia is willing to provide them cover, I doubt any of the Western powers will make a fuss. In fact, I’m quite sure they’re secretly happy they don’t have to deal with the problem themselves. Make no mistake, my brothers, these Liberians are serious people. They allowed me to speak with a few of the prisoners, who told me the Russians murdered quite freely and laughed in the process.”

“But their offer is outrageous! We can get more ransom—”

“Can we?” Zahra asked, cutting the man off. “Thanks to the al-Shabaab fanatics and their lunacy with the American ship, there’s now a UN moratorium on the payment of ransoms. One which hasn’t been broken despite the fact that we’ve executed over twenty hostages. That means even if owners and insurers are willing to deal with us, as these Liberians seem to be, it’s now impossible for them to process the necessary transactions through their banks. I doubt we see another cent in ransom money, at least until things cool down, and that may take months, or even longer.” Zahra stopped and stared down the table. “That makes the offer of two ships full of gasoline very attractive. The asset is already here; no government can stop its delivery. Together, they carry over one hundred and fifty million dollars’ worth of petrol, even if we sell it below market price.”

A man down the table looked doubtful. “So you say. But we’re warriors, not merchants. We already have other tankers, and we’ve always ransomed them in the past. What’s so special about these?”

Idiot!
Zahra struggled to hide his contempt.

“Those are crude tankers,” he said. “Their cargo is useless to anyone lacking the means to refine the crude. These are product tankers, full of premium gasoline. It’s as good as cash.”

“The ships and captives are here, within easy reach,” said one of the others. “We greatly outnumber these Liberians. Why negotiate at all? Why not just take the hostages
and
the ships?”

Zahra could no longer hide his exasperation. “With what? A collection of khat-chewing holders? These Liberians have over a hundred of our best attackers, and the Russian assault after the drillship sinking wiped out over forty more. Must I remind you that only one mother ship survived that attack with a few men left alive? We hardly have enough experienced men left to conduct normal operations against single unarmed ships, and only then if we combine forces. We have nowhere near the necessary firepower to successfully attack targets defended by armed Russians!”

“I still say they’re bluffing,” came a reply from down the table, and the group once again dissolved in chaos, each man shouting his opinion to be heard above the melee. Zahra shook his head in disgust.

“Have you confirmed the cargos, Zahra?”

The voice was hardly above normal speaking level, yet it was heard through the commotion. The others fell silent and turned to the speaker. Gutaale was at least a decade older than the others, and universally respected—and feared.

“Have you confirmed the cargos, Zahra?” he repeated.

“Yes, Gutaale,” Zahra said. “Several of my men have lived in Europe and worked as seamen on tankers, and the Liberians allowed us to inspect the ships. My men confirm that they are both full of gasoline.”

“And whoever these Liberians are, doesn’t it seem strange they have such a fortune in gasoline to trade? Something doesn’t seem right to me,” Gutaale said.

Zahra suppressed a smile. If he could win Gutaale over, the others would fall in line, and the man was asking the very questions he’d asked himself.

“Nor to me, Gutaale. At least at first. But things became clear during negotiations. Blake wouldn’t answer that question, but this Dugan isn’t quite so clever. He let a few things slip and Omar, my interpreter, was able to pick up on them. Between us, we pieced things together,” Zahra said. “The tankers are both old, near the end of their lives. The cargoes belong to major oil companies, and the oil majors self-insure their cargo. I think these Liberians just diverted the tankers here to use the cargo as trade goods. They will, of course, claim that they were hijacked by pirates and that they were only able to negotiate the release of the crews. The ship insurers will be happy to get off by paying scrap value for the two old tankers, and the oil companies will be stuck with the bill for the gasoline.” Zahra paused, his admiration obvious. “It’s quite clever.”

“And quite obvious,” Gutaale said. “There’ll be repercussions.”

“Ah, but that’s the beauty of it,” Zahra said. “Repercussions from whom?”

He ticked off points on his fingers.

“All our captives will be released, so the great humanitarian issue is solved. With the captives out of the equation, pressure will be off the various governments. Maintaining the anti-pirate force is expensive, and I suspect they’ll all jump at the chance to reduce their naval presence. Will the insurers complain? I don’t think so. No hostages reduces the pressure on everyone. They’ll let things calm down a bit, and in a few months start very low-key talks about payments to release the remaining ships.

“This is not a bad deal,” Zahra continued. “Everyone is a winner except the oil companies, and how much sympathy can they expect? In three months’ time, everyone will go back to ignoring poor, benighted, lawless Somalia. Then we do what we want.”

Gutaale stared at Zahra. Zahra held his breath, then heaved an inward sigh as the corners of the older man’s mouth twitched upward in a smile.

“You have it all figured out, Zahra,” Gutaale said. “Exactly what is it that ‘we’ want to do?”

Zahra smiled back. “Organize, innovate, train, upgrade our equipment, and a dozen other things!” His voice grew excited as he warmed to the subject. “Just think of it Gutaale,” he said. “This is the first time we will have such a sum all together. We have a chance to combine forces and use it wisely. Night-vision equipment. Remote-controlled drones to extend our search areas. Better, bigger, faster boats with better radar and evasion capabilities. Training to teach us to use it all. Intelligence assets in the world’s shipping centers. The list is long,” Zahra said, “and all possible with this influx of money.”

“We’ve made good money in the past,” Gutaale said.

“Yes. A million here, five million there,” Zahra said. “All divided and spent foolishly. How many times have you seen the fools we employ crowd the khat market, waving fistfuls of hundred-dollar bills? We can do better. We must.”

“What do you propose?” Gutaale asked.

“To make the deal,” Zahra said. “I say we give them all the captive seamen, and negotiate for the remaining ships. We may get something for the ships from the insurers in a few months when things calm down a bit. In the meantime, we do nothing but acquire new equipment, train, and put our intelligence assets in place. The men we get back from the Liberians will be the core of our force, and they’ll know how they were captured and how to develop countermeasures. When we launch again in six or eight months, we’ll use our intelligence nets to select our targets carefully. Rather than scooping up every poxy fishing boat or rusty Greek freighter carrying cement, we’ll focus on high-value targets—loaded tankers and container ships, or perhaps passenger vessels.” Zahra paused, as if thinking. “Yes,” he said, “particularly passenger vessels. We can use the fanatics’ trick and get people onboard ahead of time. If we make the very first capture of our new venture a passenger vessel, we’ll have tremendous leverage. Think of having over a thousand European hostages!”

“Which it seems to me,” Gutaale said, “would eventually bring back the warships and put us in a situation very similar to where we are now.”

“Agreed,” Zahra said. “But the key word is
eventually
. It’ll take a year or more before we get to that point, and by that time, we’ll have bought our way into what passes for a government here.” He smiled and looked around the table. “We can all be ministers of something or other, and work diligently to free the hostages from the horrible pirates—in exchange, of course, for a sizable aid package from the Western powers.”

Gutaale leaned back in his chair and nodded. “All right, Zahra,” he said. “You’ve convinced me.” He looked around the table. “Does anyone disagree?”

No one spoke.

“Very well, Zahra,” Gutaale said. “Make your deal with these Liberians.”

M/T Marie Floyd
At anchor
Harardheere, Somalia

Dugan walked across the main deck to where Blake stood staring out at the M/T
Luther Hurd
, anchored in the shadow of USS
Carney
.

“How are your people, Vince?” he asked.

“Looks like they’re both going to be OK,” Blake said. “The navy’s evacuating them to Bahrain for further evaluation, then they’ll fly them home. Looks like Stan may heal faster than Lynda, but the doc on the
Carney
said she might be able to avoid surgery and get by with physical therapy.”

Dugan nodded. “How about you? What’re your plans?”

“I’ll take the
Luther Hurd
on to Diego Garcia,” Blake said. “Hanley leaned on some politicians who leaned on the navy, and they’re flying some replacement crew out via Bahrain also. We’ll tag along a few hours behind
Carney
until we get in chopper range.” Blake looked a question at Dugan. “But I don’t think you came up here to discuss my travel plans. What’s up?”

Dugan grinned. “I just got off the phone with our new buddy Omar. Hook, line, and friggin’ sinker! They bought the whole story.”

“Terrific! You were smart to let them keep some of the ships. They think they got the best end of the deal. The crews are the issue.”

Farther down the deck, Woody emerged from a ballast tank manhole and began to pull a cutting-torch hose from the tank and coil it on deck. He was finished by the time Dugan and Blake reached him.

“What’s up?” Woody asked.

“You tell me,” Dugan said. “How are the ballast-tank bulkheads coming?”

“Finished,” Woody said.

“And the engine room?”

“Let’s just cut to the chase, Dugan,” Woody said. “I said ‘finished.’ That means every damn watertight bulkhead on this ship is like Swiss cheese.”

“OK. How about the jammers and the li—”

“Jesus H. Christ on a crutch, Dugan! You sure you ain’t related to Hanley? You could be twins separated at birth.”

Dugan opened his mouth to protest, but Woody cut him off. “Every single thing on your list is finished. Here on
Marie Floyd
, and over on
Pacific Endurance
too.”

Blake laughed, reducing Dugan’s indignation to a sheepish grin.

“OK, OK,” Dugan said. “Pack up and get your boys over to the
Carney
.”

“If it’s all the same to you,” Woody said, “me and the boys will ride on
Luther Hurd
with Andrei and his guys till Bahrain.”

“
Andrei
? You mean Borgdanov? The same guy you said you’d never be bass-fishing buddies with?”

“He ain’t half bad,” Woody said grudgingly. “For a foreigner, I mean.”

Dugan laughed, then stroked his chin. “Not a bad idea. We’ll have the Russians with us here on
Marie Floyd
right up to the last minute, but if Zahra gets any cute ideas, having you and your boys with your M-4s close by will be good backup.”

M/T Marie Floyd
At anchor
Harardheere, Somalia

Dugan stood with Blake near the accommodation ladder. Borgdanov and his black-clad Russians surrounded them facing outward, a threatening counterbalance to the fifty-strong contingent of the twelve clan leaders farther down the deck. The pirate presence was growing, as pirates released from their holding cells joined their leaders on deck.