Deadly Straits (A Tom Dugan Novel) (24 page)

“
Da,
rappel. Then Petrov kills fanatics and stops ship. Your CIA says four fanatics on board. We should kill one or two on bridge. Should not take so long for others.”

“What about the bridge crew?”

Borgdanov seemed confused. “They die. Of course.”

Dugan stared. “That’s the plan?”

“
Da.
We have fuel to stay a few minutes only. If ship gets to Bosphorus, many people die, including all crew. We save many people, maybe even some crew. Is better,
da
?”

Brutal, but logical. Dugan nodded without speaking, listening to exchanges in Russian between the choppers. Then came a lengthy burst, the voice strained. Borgdanov responded, triggering an argument. Borgdanov screamed a final “nyet” and a short sentence that ended it.

“What’s up?” Dugan asked when his headset grew quiet.

“Other pilot complains of very high headwinds. It means increased fuel consumption, and he claims no way to reach target with such winds. He wants to abort. Always these flyers look for tricks to escape duty. I refuse.”

Their pilot glared over his shoulder, obviously an English speaker. Borgdanov glared back, and the man looked away.

“But how can you stop him from aborting?” Dugan asked.

“If he aborts, I say to Petrov to shoot flight crew as soon as chopper lands.”

Christ, Dugan thought, this is one scary bastard.

***

An hour and a half later, Dugan roused to the pilot’s voice in his headphones. Borgdanov acknowledged the pilot and returned Dugan’s passport, motioning the sergeant to return his sat phone as well.

“Point of no return,” Borgdanov said, “now we continue to Turkey no matter what. But I need your help. The terrorists have disabled GPS on ship so she is not so easy to find. My plan was to fly to Bosphorus entrance, then north on course for Odessa to find ship, but now pilot says because of wind, fuel is too low for this. He exaggerates, of course, but even so, I think we do not have fuel to waste. With good position, we go straight to ship. I need CIA satellites.”

“What about your own satellites?”

“We have not so many now, and they watch US and China, not Black Sea.” He smiled. “I think your satellites already look Black Sea, so no need to retask,
da
?”

Dugan nodded, then shed his headset and called Ward, phone jammed against one ear and his finger in the other against the noise of the chopper.

“God damn it, Tom, where the hell are you? The charter plane pilot said th—”

“In a Russian chopper over the Black Sea thanks to your asshole boss.”

“Gardner? Son of a bitch. He’s screwed this up by the numbers. OK, look. Have the Russians—”

“Too late. We’re low on fuel. You have a position on the ship?”

“Christ. Langley was to have updated the Russians an hour ago. I guess Gardner screwed that up too.” He paused. “She’ll reach the pilot station four hours early. Your best bet is to intercept just before arrival.”

“Not good, Jesse. We’ve got strong headwinds. What about the Turks?”

“Langley’s in contact with Ankara, but it’s a cluster fuck. I have no clue what’s actually filtering down to the locals in Istanbul or to the Bosphorus pilots. We’re dancing in the dark.”

Dugan sighed. “OK. Got a specific target yet?”

“We’re still waiting to resume questioning Braun.”

“Ship info?”

“Yeah, Anna’s tech wizards converted the vessel particulars sheet to a text message. We’ll send it to your phone.”

“Thanks, Jesse. Keep me posted.”

“Will do, Tom. Watch yourself.”

“Like I have a choice,” Dugan said.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

M/T Contessa di Mare
Black Sea
North of Turkeli Lighthouse

Day dawned as Basaev watched radar dots become ships, converging on the Bosphorus. He moved to the bridge wing, his stomach knot tightening at the sight of the tanker overtaking him, a competitor for the first southbound slot. A slot he had to have to arrive when his target crawled with infidel tourists and fawning Turks.

Passage through the Bosphorus “without delay or regulation” had been guaranteed by treaty for decades when the Turks moved unilaterally in 1994 to regulate burgeoning tanker traffic. Her northern neighbors protested still, while many Turks pressed for a total ban. Western Europe, hungry for Russian oil, stayed neutral, and a compromise developed. The Black Sea states refused to accept Turkey’s actions, even as they complied, and the Turks let compliant tankers pass. A compromise Basaev would end, God willing. He moved to the radio.

“Turkeli Control, this is the tanker
Contessa di Mare
. Over.”

“Go ahead,
Contessa di Mare
.”

“Our ETA is oh seven hundred. We request clearance, over.”

“You are early,
Contessa
,” came the reply, “from your twenty-four hour rep—”

“Control, this is tanker
Svirstroy
,” said a Russian voice. “
Contessa
is not at reporting point. I will arrive first and claim first slot. Over.”

“
Contessa
, this is Control. You are cleared for transit. Call the Kavak Pilots on channel seventy-one. Use twelve in the strait, but report on thirteen at Anadolu Light. Over.”

“Control, this is
Contessa di Mare
. I copy and will—”

“
Svirstroy
to Control. I protest. I was clearl—”

“Control to
Svirstroy
. Go to anchor. You are next in queue. Presuming you comply.”

Basaev smiled. “Thank you, Control.
Contessa di Mare
, out.”

“Safe transit, Captain. Turkeli Control, out.”

***

Basaev watched from the bridge wing as the pilot climbed aboard, then moved back into the wheelhouse to wait as Shamil, uniformed as the third mate, escorted the pilot up. He glanced at the helmsman. The young Italian was behaving like the chief engineer in the Engine Control Room, aware the slightest transgression would mean death for their shipmates.

The pilot arrived and introduced himself, giving cards to both Basaev and Shamil. Shamil went into the chart room, ostensibly to record the man’s name in the logbook. Basaev stayed with the pilot to review a transit checklist.

In the chart room, Shamil entered the pilot’s name into an Iranian-supplied laptop and smiled. He printed out the information, pulling a pistol from a drawer as the printer whirred, then collected the output and stepped onto the bridge behind the pilot. He jammed the gun to the back of the man’s head.

“That’s a gun, Captain,” Shamil said. “Raise your hands. Slowly.”

The pilot complied as Basaev relieved him of his radio and cell phone. Then Shamil handed Basaev the information.

“Very good, Captain… Akkaya,” Basaev said, glancing through the pages. “And your wife and daughter are beautiful,” he said, displaying photos.

“Shamil here made a call,” Basaev lied, “and our colleagues ashore are going to visit them. Their safety is in your hands. Will you cooperate?”

The pilot nodded, ashen faced. Basaev gestured he could lower his hands.

“All right,” Basaev continued in Turkish. “Proceed and report as usual. No tricks. I speak your language.” The man nodded.

“Good. Captain Akkaya. You have the bridge.”

The pilot took over, and Basaev lifted the console phone.

“Engine Room,” Aslan said.

“Aslan. Start the fans.”

In Flight Over Black Sea
Approaching Bosphorus Straits

Dugan looked toward the Turkish coast as a burst of excited Russian sounded in his headphones, precipitating a three-way exchange between Borgdanov and the pilots of both choppers. Finally, Borgdanov shot a worried look across at the other chopper and gave a resigned “
da
” as the other chopper peeled away and headed away from the coast out to sea.

“What’s up?” Dugan asked when he was sure the Russians were finished speaking.

“Low-fuel alarm on other chopper,” Borgdanov said. “He has twenty minutes air time, no more. Is no way he will reach Bosphorus with us.”

Dugan looked at the nearby coast, confused. “But why is he going out to sea?”

“He has no American aboard,” the Russian said, “and would be big problem if he lands in Turkey. I tell him to go well to sea to be sure he is clearly in international waters. He has enough time to get there and hover while crew deploys raft. Then he will ditch. One of our naval vessels is already on way to pick up men.”

Dugan was still confused. “Why was he lower on fuel than us?”

“Because he hovers a few minutes at rendezvous point while we collect you,” Borgdanov said, “and also as primary strike force he has heavier load—five more men and their weapons. Under most conditions, would make little difference, but with this wind…” The Russian shrugged, leaving the thought unfinished.

Borgdanov spoke in Russian into his mike, and Dugan saw an answering nod from the chopper pilot. The chopper dropped to skim the surface of the water and moved closer to the Turkish coast.

“I think Turkish radar will pick us up soon,” the Russian said, “but we will stay as low as possible to delay that. We have you aboard, so we can land if necessary.” He smiled. “Assuming Turks don’t shoot us down first and ask questions later.”

***

Ten minutes later, as Dugan watched the Turkish coast flash past the left side of the chopper, a raucous alarm brought another burst of Russian in his headset.

“Fuel alarm,” Borgdanov said. “Pilot says twenty minutes, no more.”

“Do we land?” Dugan asked.

“Nyet,” the Russian said. “We are close now. We will complete mission.”

He smiled at the worried look on Dugan’s face.

“Do not worry so,
Dyed
,” he said. “Always these pilots exaggerate the danger.”

Dugan was about to debate the point when his phone vibrated.

“Jesse. Thank God. Talk to me.”

“I called the Turks direct. The Bosphorus pilot boarded an hour ago. A Turkish Coast Guard boat is closing, but chopper response will take time. I informed the Turks the Russians are in route. They want your help.”

“An hour ago? She must be halfway through the strait. What’s the damn target?”

“Braun just talked. Sultanahmet, between Attaturk Plaza and Eminönü ferry terminal.”

Sultanahmet, a dense square of attractions—Topkapi Palace, the Attaturk statue, the Grand Bazaar, Sultanahmet Mosque, all clustered around the bustling ferry terminal, sure to be thronged on a beautiful summer morning.

“The Russians have a plan?” Ward asked.

“Yeah. For an open-sea intercept. Now? Who the hell knows?” Dugan said as the fuel alarm buzzed again.

Airborne
Over Upper Bosphorus Straits

Dugan stared forward as they cleared Fatih Mehmet Bridge.

“There,” Dugan pointed. “Stay high and hover.”

Southward, almost to First Bosphorus Bridge, was a tanker with a distinctive green hull and BARBIERO in white letters on her side. A boat sped toward a pilot ladder rigged on the ship’s starboard side. As the boat neared, a figure appeared on the starboard bridge wing, carrying something.

“RPG,” Borgdanov said as the boat disappeared in a fireball. Dugan watched, stunned. The Russian shook his arm.

“Dugan. I said how long to target?”

Dugan looked beyond First Bosphorus Bridge to Topkapi Palace in the distance and did a quick mental calculation.

“Assuming full harbor speed of eight knots, she’ll pass the bridge in about ten minutes. Then maybe twenty-five more to target. You have a plan?”

Borgdanov shook his head. “Only that we rappel aboard and try to kill fanatics. If we cannot kill them, we set charges and jump in water. Some people die, but maybe not so many.”

“What about RPGs?”

“I think no problem. How far from wheelhouse to bow of ship?”

“Four hundred fifty, maybe four hundred sixty feet, give or take—”

“Nyet. In meters, Dugan. In meters.”

“Sorry,” Dugan said. “About a hundred and forty meters. Why?”

“Because RPGs accurate to only eighty meters. This we learn in Afghanistan where our choppers have no problem until Americans give savages Stinger missiles.”

He glared, then continued. “I know these savages. They will not risk blowing up ship with wild RPG shot over deck this near complete success. We circle wide, hide behind bridge, and drop near front of ship by surprise. After that?” He shrugged.

Hell of a plan, thought Dugan as the fuel alarm buzzed again.

Hovering
South of First Bosphorus Bridge

The alarm was constant as they hovered behind the span.

“Will they attack when you board?” Dugan asked.

Borgdanov looked up from his preparations. “Nyet. They know we must come to them. Two will probably defend engine room with two on bridge. Maybe some booby traps.” He raised his eyebrows. “You have some idea,
Dyed
?”

“Sultanahmet’s at the south entrance of the strait. You could override the bridge at the emergency steering station and change course into the Sea of Marmara.”

Borgdanov looked doubtful. “Fanatics stop engine,” he said.

“But you’ll be on a new course. A loaded tanker doesn’t stop quickly.”

Borgdanov hesitated. “We know nothing of these controls,
Dyed
. For this, you must come. You do this?”

Dugan envisioned charred bodies in the ruins of Sultanahmet as the buzzing fuel alarm defined the limits of his options. May as well go down swinging. He swallowed and nodded.

Borgdanov grinned. “Good. So is unnecessary to have Ilya shoot you in painful but unimportant place. You come with me. How you say… tandem jump.”

Oh goody, Dugan thought.

M/T Contessa di Mare
Southbound
North of First Bosphorus Bridge

“You are certain, Shamil?”

“I saw him after I fired the RPG but lost him. You think I cannot recognize a Russian?”

“Forgive me,” Basaev said, “I was surprised. If the Turks now ally themselves with Russian scum, I strike them with a song in my heart.”

Shamil nodded as Basaev lifted binoculars and looked ahead.

He handed Shamil the glasses. “The surface just beyond the bridge.”

“I see only ripples,” Shamil said, peering through the binoculars.

“Or a downdraft,” Basaev said.

Shamil trailed him to the bridge wing. Barely audible through ambient noise was the thump of blades.

“He hides behind the span,” Shamil said.

Basaev nodded. “An ambush.”

“What now?”

Basaev smiled. “Praise Allah for Russian targets. Get on the wheelhouse with the Stinger. Shoot the tail like the Iranians showed us. He will spin away.”

Shamil grinned and rushed inside as Basaev moved in to call the engine room.

“Doku,” Basaev said, “we will be attacked. I will transfer engine control to you. They know of us, so we no longer need to follow rules. Go to sea speed, send Aslan to the Cargo Control Room to prepare to discharge, and arm booby traps on all the engine-room doors.”

“At once,” Doku said and hung up.

Basaev called to Shamil as he hurried past.

“Take time to aim well. A few of them on deck are less a threat than a flaming chopper.”

Shamil nodded, annoyed.

Basaev grinned. “Besides, why should you have all the fun?”

Shamil returned his grin and hurried out.

***

Dugan stood terrified as wind and noise blasted him. The major yelled in his ear.

“On ‘set,’ wrap arms around my neck and legs around my body like lover. On ‘go,’ I jump. Don’t worry. I control everything.” Dugan nodded mutely as the Russian continued. “Ilya goes first and will hold rope. When we land, I unclip here”—he put Dugan’s hand on the carabiner clip—”and we separate. Fast. Understand?”

Dugan nodded again and was still pondering his lunacy when the sergeant disappeared. Seconds later he was hurtling downward, a death grip on Borgdanov.

“Release my arm, idiot! I cannot control speed,” the Russian screamed.

He made his point by smashing his helmet into Dugan’s battered face. Dugan’s hands flew to his nose, and Borgdanov stopped their plunge abruptly, just above deck. Dugan’s legs jerked free, leaving the pair joined by their web gear and spinning. They hit the deck hard, Borgdanov on top. Dugan lay gasping as the Russians clawed at the snarled rope.

Flying Bridge
M/T Contessa di Mare
Passing First Bosphorus Bridge

Shamil sat, elbows on knees and the Stinger on his shoulder as the bridge loomed. A man dropped into view as the bow cleared the span, the chopper still shielded. The man landed cleanly in a clear area of the main deck just aft of the raised forecastle deck and pulled the rope taut for a pair of men that followed, faster and without grace, landing in a jumble of flailing limbs.

Shamil could see the chopper skids now and waited impatiently. Then it was there, and he locked on to the tail rotor and fired. A fireball bloomed, and he panicked momentarily as a flaming chunk plunged, narrowly missing the bow to splash into the sea. The chopper corkscrewed away, slinging black-clad Russians to their deaths.

“
Allahu Akbar
!” he screamed.

Near the Bow
M/T Contessa di Mare