Radiant Angel (28 page)

I didn’t reply.

She continued, “Assuming Petrov is prepared to give his life to accomplish this mission, all he has to do is plow through those security vessels around the bridge, and he’s in the harbor. Then he keeps going full speed ahead and within… what did you say? In less than twenty minutes The Hana is at the tip of Manhattan.” She added, “There are not many security vessels inside the harbor.”

“Correct. But the vessels at The Narrows will pursue and carry out a boarding.”

“I’m sure Petrov has the ability to detonate the nuke anytime.”

“Right.”

She stayed silent, then asked, “So why are we here?”

I hate when people ask questions like that.

“John?”

“We are here to let Petrov know we are here. We are here to force his hand and make him detonate the nuke prematurely, before he gets close to Manhattan. We are here to remove any thought he has of escaping the blast or escaping a bullet.” I added, “But mostly we and everyone else are here because this is our job.”

“And maybe we’re here to pray.”

So we sat there on the bow of the SAFE boat, knowing that any second could be our last. Well, there are worse ways to make an exit.

Tess was looking up at the sky, which was clear and starlit. The moon was low on the western horizon and moonlight sparkled on the bay.

In fact, it was a nice night. The harbor was calm, the shore lights reflected on the water, and the misty fog was… well, romantic.

Tess took my hand.

Neither of us spoke for awhile, then she said, “Will you buy me a drink tonight?”

“Of course.”

“You can bring your wife if you’d like.”

“And you can bring Grant.”

She laughed softly, then said, “If you bring Kate, I’ll bring Buck.”

“Is that a threat?”

She squeezed my hand. “I’m frightened.”

“We’re all frightened. It’s okay.”

“What’s your favorite bar?”

“All of them.”

“I’ll take you to the Yale Club if you promise to behave.”

“I’ll take you to a Russian nightclub in Brighton Beach if you promise not to behave.”

“It’s a date.”

She put her arm around me and I did the same. I could only imagine what Pete and Nikola were thinking.

Well… what difference did it make at this point?

Conte opened the front window of the cabin and said, “I hate to interrupt, but for what it’s worth, a helicopter just got a radar blip moving on the water near the Thirtieth Street Pier… but no radiation. So maybe it’s an outbound cargo ship.”

I knew the Thirtieth Street Pier, because the NYPD had once used that Brooklyn pier to store vehicles that had been towed, abandoned, or stolen and recovered. But now it was being converted into a modern recycling facility—so there shouldn’t be any ships using the pier.

Last time I saw this facility, a huge steel boathouse bigger than three football fields was being constructed to enclose the pier. On the land side of the project was construction equipment and material, surrounded by a twelve-foot chain-link security fence. It occurred to me that an NYPD patrol car checking out the waterfront could not possibly see the far end of the enclosed pier, which was nearly three hundred yards from the fence. And it was very possible that an NYPD Harbor vessel, even with a searchlight, might not see a ship sitting inside the huge, unlit enclosure, especially if construction barges were moored at the end of the pier. To add to all this, the roof of the steel structure was covered with photoelectric cells that would confuse any helicopter’s infrared devices or penetrating radar. Maybe I should have thought of this sooner.

I said to Conte, “Let’s check this out.”

“Right.” He fired up both engines and reminded us, “We are relying on choppers in the harbor, and almost all the security vessels on this operation are blocking The Narrows or are on the Hudson and East Rivers—so it appears on radar that we are the only sea vessel in this immediate area.”

“Our lucky day.” I pictured in my mind the Google Earth image and said, “Buttermilk Channel is the most direct route from the Thirtieth Street Pier to the tip of Manhattan.”

Conte turned the SAFE boat and headed for the mouth of Buttermilk Channel, which ran between Governors Island and the Brooklyn waterfront. If the radar blip was
The Hana
, Petrov would be heading toward us from the opposite direction.

As we approached the mouth of Buttermilk Channel, Conte called out to us, “I see it on radar—target is gaining speed… on a course for Buttermilk.”

Tess knelt on the bow of the SAFE boat, staring straight ahead. She glanced at me and I put my hand on her shoulder. “If this is him,” I said, “he won’t detonate in this enclosed channel.”

She nodded.

The SAFE boat continued at about twenty knots through the channel, which was widening as it neared the end of Governors Island.

Ahead was a gray wall of fog spanning the thousand-foot opening to the channel, and as we approached, the huge bow of a gleaming white ship suddenly cleaved through the fog bank, followed by the rest of the towering ship, coming straight at us.

We had found
The Hana
.

W
e were on a collision course with the ship and Conte cut hard to starboard. Tess and I flattened ourselves on the bow and clung to the rail as the SAFE boat heeled sharply to the right. I yelled into the cabin, “Come around!”

Conte continued his turn and within a minute we were behind
The Hana
, which was making about ten knots as it continued through the channel toward Manhattan Island. We closed the distance quickly, though we were now riding in the big ship’s wake and bouncing badly.

I shouted to Conte and Andersson, “I’m going to board!”

They both acknowledged and Conte increased his speed.

Tess said, “
We
are going to board.”

Right.

We were less than twenty feet from
The Hana
’s stern and I got up on one knee, holding on to the rail and calculating my jump from the bow to
The Hana
’s swimming platform. My float coat was heavy, but it might come in handy if I misjudged.

As we got closer, I could see the glass doors at the far side of the swimming platform, which I assumed were locked. Every police vehicle carries a Halligan tool—a multi-purpose crowbar to pry open doors and smash glass—and I called into the cabin, “You got a Halligan?”

“Right here!” said Andersson, and she passed me the tool through the open windshield.

She also grabbed a bulletproof vest and an MP5 submachine gun
with an extra magazine and passed them to me. I flung the vest to Tess and aimed the MP5 at
The Hana
. I fully expected hostile fire from the yacht, but I couldn’t see anyone on the darkened ship. I wanted to think that Petrov and his pals didn’t know they were about to be boarded, but whoever was captaining this ship must be watching us on their rear video camera.

The bow of the SAFE boat was a few feet from the swimming platform, and as I waited for the bow to drop, I called to Tess, “Cover me!”

“No, you cover
me
.” She stood, flung the Kevlar vest onto the swimming platform, then jumped.

I called into the cabin, “When I jump, get out of here!”

Conte called back, “Good luck!”

I slung the MP5 over my shoulder, and as the bow dropped again I saw Tess kneeling on the platform, gun drawn, facing the doors. My turn. I might get shot, but I wouldn’t drown. I jumped and hit the wooden platform and shoulder-rolled toward the glass doors, then sprang to my feet and swung the Halligan tool at the door, but the security glass didn’t shatter. I thrust the tapered end of the Halligan between the double doors, rotated the tool inward, and the door popped open. I drew my Glock and dropped to one knee, then glanced over my shoulder and saw the SAFE boat heading south, out of the harbor. We were on our own.

Tess came up beside me carrying the bulletproof vest and I said, “Put it on.”

“Swap you the vest for the MP5.”

“Put it
on
!”

She slipped off her float coat and put on the vest, and we scanned the interior of the ship.

This was the float-in tender garage and I saw that it was indeed flooded, and it took me a second to realize that the source of the illumination was underwater lights. To the left and right were staircases that rose to the main deck, and also to the left was a catwalk running along the hull connecting the two docks. At the closest dock I could see the amphibious craft that I last saw heading out to sea with Petrov and his friends. Well, we were on the right boat.

We moved in a crouch farther into the ship. Across the flooded
garage, near the opposite dock, I noticed something dark under the water, and as my eyes adjusted to the light I recognized it as a submerged boat. I whispered to Tess, “You got that PRD?” She took the radiation detector from her pocket and I could hear a faint beep, followed by another, and I saw the red light flash intermittently, indicating a weak reading, which I’d expect if the nuke was submerged and had a lead shield. So there was little doubt in my mind that we were in the presence of a radiant angel.

Tess said, “That’s got to be it. But how do we—?”

“Get down!”

We dropped into a prone position and I pointed my Glock at where I’d seen movement on the opposite dock.

A man was sitting on the dock with his legs dangling over the side, and even in the dim light I recognized him as Arkady Urmanov.

Tess and I exchanged glances, but before we could decide on our next move, Urmanov called out, “Help me!”

That wasn’t what I expected to hear, but I replied, “Okay. Where—?”

“I am tied. You must free me.”

So if I could figure this out, Urmanov had done his job of arming the device and he was now one witness too many, and for some sick reason Petrov decided that Urmanov should die by his own creation. Petrov was a tough boss.

“You must pump out the water! To your left. On the walkway. The switches for the pump.”

I looked at the catwalk and I could see control panels on the hull.

“Untie me!”

One thing at a time, pal. I said to Tess, “Stay here and cover.”

She got into a kneeling position, and I rose to one knee and was about to make a dash for the catwalk, but another movement caught my eye. The door on the far side of the tender garage had swung open, and I saw a figure crouched in front of the door. But before I could swing my Glock toward the figure, I saw muzzle flashes, but heard no sound. Well, I know a silenced weapon when I don’t hear one, and I hit the deck and shouted to Tess, “Down!”

Arkady Urmanov let out a loud cry, followed by a moan.

I aimed my Glock at the place where I’d seen the flash of the automatic weapon and popped off five rounds, which echoed in the huge space.

Tess did the same, and we rolled away from our firing positions and popped off the rest of our magazines, then rolled again as we reloaded.

There was no flash of return fire, so whoever was shooting was not giving away his position. Or maybe we hit him. I glanced at Urmanov across the flooded garage, and I could see that he was slumped forward. I was pretty sure he was dead, and so were my chances of Urmanov disarming the bomb.

Tess was about twenty feet away, flat against the deck, pointing her Glock downrange, but maintaining fire discipline until a target presented itself, as was the guy who shot at us. Petrov? Gorsky? In either case, they were both trained killers, and killers know when to play dead. Meanwhile, the nuke was sitting about thirty feet away in a sunken boat that I could see but couldn’t get to. And I was sure the timer was no longer set for 8:46
A.M.

I looked up at the catwalk where Urmanov said the pump switch was located, and I would have made a dash for it, but standing there was Viktor Gorsky, who shut off the underwater lights, throwing the garage into total darkness.

I knew he was already gone but I fired anyway to draw his fire, and a second later Gorsky returned the fire and I could hear the rounds smacking into the wooden deck around us as Tess and I shot at the muzzle flashes.

Gorsky’s firing stopped and I lay motionless, listening for Tess, hoping she was alive and Gorsky was dead. I called out softly, “You okay?”

“Yeah.” She suggested, “Use the MP5.”

They tell you never to reveal the automatic weapon until you see the target, then you surprise the guy. Gorsky was using his, but it was silenced and he probably had lots of ammo, and I did not.

While I was weighing the pros and cons of bringing out the big gun, another burst of rounds cut through the darkness and I could hear them buzzing over my head. A round smashed into the glass
door behind us, confirming that even pros tend to fire high in the dark.

Okay, so Gorsky was obviously alive and not leaving. But if he intended to escape the explosion, he had to leave at some point. But if he was on a suicide mission, then we’d all share the one-time experience of nuclear oblivion. But I didn’t come this far and get this close to the nuke to have it blow up in my face. All I had to do was get to it. Which meant getting to the catwalk and pumping the water out of the garage. Which meant getting rid of Gorsky and his automatic weapon.

And then what? Well, I took a Bomb Squad class on how to disarm a conventional bomb.
There are three components you look for when faced with an unknown explosive device: the power source; the explosive charge; and the detonator.

How much different could a nuclear bomb be?

Most sophisticated explosive devices have a collapsible circuit. If you cut one wire leading to the charge, it collapses the other circuit, setting off the charge. But if you can remove any one of the three components…

Right. Easier said than done. Gorsky had this entire open area covered by a silenced automatic weapon, and the nuke itself was covered with water. We had come to a standoff, and in this case with the timer ticking, a standoff was as good as a win for Gorsky and Petrov.

But Vasily Petrov was an impatient and impulsive man and he did not see it that way, because I heard his voice boom out over a speaker, “Kill them!”

Gorsky, who understood that he’d checkmated the intruders, did not fire, and Petrov yelled again, “Kill them!”

It’s not a happy occasion when someone is yelling, “Kill them!” and you see muzzle flashes followed by the sound of bullets impacting around you. I mean, this asshole couldn’t see us, but if you spray enough bullets downrange, eventually you’re going to hit your target. Time to get out of here.

I retrieved the Halligan tool and whispered to Tess, “We have to get around this guy. We split up and take the staircases. Meet you on the main deck.”

“Okay…”

“On three. One, two”—I tossed the Halligan tool into the air over the water—“three!” I heard the Halligan hit the opposite dock, followed by rounds impacting far behind us as we sprinted toward the left and right staircases.

I reached the top of the stairs in about three seconds and saw Tess already there, gun drawn covering the rear deck.

There was some moonlight left, and some illumination came from the Brooklyn waterfront, which was sliding by on our right. I figured we’d be out of the channel and near the tip of Manhattan in about fifteen minutes—or less if this ship picked up speed when it cleared the channel.

There was a helicopter overhead, so we weren’t alone, but we were as good as alone until someone made the decision to board
The Hana
. Conte and Andersson had by now transmitted a sit-rep, but bureaucracy and chain of command being what they were, the order to commence a combat boarding could take ten or fifteen minutes, followed by a detailed plan of operation, and by that time the show would be over.

Tess asked, “What now?”

“If we can’t get to the nuke, we have to get to the asshole who controls the nuke and the other asshole who’s steering this ship, and one or both of them will be on the bridge.”

I got rid of my heavy float coat and moved quickly to the doors that according to the deck plans led to the bar and dining room. I held my Glock in my right hand and the MP5 in my left, and motioned to the door, which Tess threw open. I burst inside the barroom, but before I had a chance to shoulder-roll, I tripped over something on the floor and found myself staring into the face of someone with a third eye in his forehead.

Vasily Petrov turned away from the image on the video monitor. Even in the dim underwater lights of the garage, he recognized the man and the woman. Viktor was right; he should have killed them at Tamorov’s house.

Gleb said, “It appears that we have been boarded, Colonel.”

“Viktor will kill them.”

“He has not killed them. He has only managed to kill Arkady, who was not a moving target with a gun.”

Petrov ignored the sarcasm and stared through the windshield, fixated on the lighted skyline of Lower Manhattan. He would have enjoyed seeing the post-apocalyptic photographs and news footage of the nuclear wasteland, but that was not to be, though his father would see them and be proud of his son’s sacrifice.

Gleb had set the autopilot on a course to bring
The Hana
to the ferry terminal at the tip of Manhattan, so Gleb was no longer needed. But Petrov wanted more speed, so he said, “Full speed, Captain.”

“How do we get off this ship?”

Petrov was prepared for the question and replied, “We don life vests and jump.” He added, “When we come ashore, we will go to our car—or find a taxi to take us to the diplomatic residential complex in the Bronx, where we will be safe.” He glanced at Gleb to see if he was believing any of that.

Gleb pointed out, “We will not get far in the water before the Americans capture us, or the explosion kills us.”

“I know what I am doing, Captain.”

“And
I
know what you are doing.”

Gleb turned on the radar and looked at the screen. There were now four craft within a few hundred meters of
The Hana
, and overhead he could hear a helicopter. He said to Petrov, “We are surrounded by hostile craft, and there are at least two Americans with weapons onboard.” He looked at Petrov. “It is over.”

Petrov stared at the Manhattan skyline.

“It is
over
, Colonel.”

“It is within reach, Captain.” He took the arming device from his pocket.

“Yes, if we intend to die in a nuclear explosion. I do not.” He said to Petrov, “Give me that thing in your hand.”

Petrov looked at Gleb and saw that Gleb had his pistol pointed at him.

Gleb repeated, “Give me that thing in your hand.”

Petrov held out the arming device. “Do you mean this thing? Or…” Petrov drew his Makarov from his pocket. “… this one?”

Gleb pulled the trigger on his pistol and was surprised to hear a dull thud.

Petrov said, “We seem to have a problem today with malfunctioning guns.” He aimed at Gleb’s face and fired a bullet between his eyes. Gleb’s head snapped back and he fell to the deck.

Petrov pocketed his pistol and took Gleb’s place at the helm. He looked at the autopilot light. The ship’s speed and course were set, and if he did nothing,
The Hana
would continue toward the tip of Manhattan Island at ten knots. But if he pushed the throttles forward for more speed, the autopilot would disengage and he would have to steer the ship himself. He wanted more speed, but he didn’t want to cancel Gleb’s pre-set course, in case he had to leave the bridge—or if he was killed. All he had to do now was reset the timer on the nuclear device.