Deadly Straits (A Tom Dugan Novel) (26 page)

Basaev watched the bow creep to port. The speed log read six knots and dropping.

“What shall I do?” Doku asked.

“Forget him. Join Shamil on main deck. Disarm all the engine-room booby traps except the steering-gear door and bring the grenades.”

“Khassan,” Shamil’s voice interrupted, “how can we change the steering now without the infidel engineer?”

“Kill the others and put the rudder hard right; it cannot be complicated. Allah provides a target we cannot miss. Call me when you are ready to start aft.”

Main Deck at Stern
M/T Contessa di Mare
0.4 Miles North of Sultanahmet

Dugan cowered behind his cover as automatic fire raked the starboard stern. The fire ceased abruptly, and he tensed at the two-note “get ready” whistle from Borgdanov.

***

Borgdanov was elated. The fanatics’ attack route was obvious. External stairways jutted from both sides of the machinery casing, shielding the portion of the bulkheads forward of the stairways from the Russians’ view. The fanatics would use that, creeping close along each bulkhead and stopping just forward of the stairs to coordinate the attack. He counted on that. Depended on it, in fact. His nagging concern had been when. Now he knew.

The fire to starboard was obviously meant to keep heads down while a fanatic approached. The third fanatic would provide cover fire for the attacker to port as well, and when that stopped, both fanatics would be in place. Borgdanov smiled. Then the surprise.

As fire stopped to starboard, Borgdanov looked over at the sergeant, who nodded, their thoughts identical. Borgdanov whistled softly to the others and leaned back against the casing, grenade ready.

Starboard Side of Bridge Deck Aft

“Doku,” Basaev said. “Shamil is in place. I am coming to cover you.

“Yes, Khassan,” Doku said as he prepared to rush aft.

Main Deck at Stern
M/T Contessa di Mare
0.35 Miles North of Sultanahmet

“GO!” shouted Borgdanov as the gunfire died to port. The Russians lobbed grenades, pins in place, to clang on deck beside the terrorists’ hiding places. Death at their feet and unable to retreat, the Chechens broke cover just as Dugan and the crew also burst forth, each man screaming as they dashed into the open to trade hiding places with their partners, hurling their missiles as they ran.

The attackers were paralyzed by multiple targets and the clang of what they took for grenades on the deck all around them. From semi-concealment, the Russians dispatched the confused Chechens with single three-round bursts. When Basaev emerged on the starboard bridge wing a moment later, a burst from Borgdanov staggered him and drove him back.

The Italians reemerged cautiously, then cheered before being silenced by the captain, who stood smiling at a growing patch of open sea to starboard.

“
Paulo
,” he yelled to the second mate, “
La zattera! Subito
!—The life raft—quickly.”

As the man moved to comply, the captain called orders to the chief mate and moved to Dugan’s side.

“We will miss the headland, I think,” he said, “but the current is tricky, and we can do no more. I ordered the rudder locked amidships and—”

“
Commandante
,” the chief mate said, “
il Capo Macchinista viene
.”

The chief engineer rounded the corner, handcuffs dangling from his wrist.

“
Bravo, Directore
,” the captain said, embracing the engineer before pointing him aft where the chief mate kept a tally as men leaped overboard to swim toward the bobbing raft.

The captain turned back to Dugan. “If the
beduino
lives, he will explode the ship. We should go,
signori
.” Dugan nodded and watched enviously as the captain moved to the rail to follow his men overboard.

Dugan turned to Borgdanov. “You think he’s alive?”

Borgdanov shrugged. “I know I hit him. How bad, I cannot say.”

Dugan darted from the shelter of the machinery casing to squat behind the Italian’s makeshift conning station. He looked down the starboard side toward Sultanahmet and tried to gauge the ship’s speed before dashing back to the Russians.

“I can’t tell how close we’ll pass to the headland,” Dugan said, “but my best guess is we’ll be as close as we’re going to get in five minutes. If the asshole’s alive and able to detonate, that’s when he’ll do it.” Dugan added, “My guess is he’ll stay on the starboard bridge wing where he can best judge the distance.”

“Good,
Dyed
,” Borgdanov said, starting up the starboard side, “we go.”

“Hold on,” Dugan said. “We’ll be exposed if you approach up the starboard stairway. Best go to port stairway to the bridge-deck level. You can attack through or around the wheelhouse.”

Borgdanov nodded and spoke to the sergeant in Russian. The sergeant started forward along the port side in a crouching run, Dugan close behind.

Starboard Side of Bridge Deck Aft
M/T Contessa di Mare
0.20 Miles North of Sultanahmet

Basaev’s head ached where the Russian’s bullet creased his scalp. He wiped blood from his eyes and crawled on his belly to the back of the bridge wing to peer down over the edge. The deck was empty save for Shamil’s body. Streaks of foam marked the wake, and a raft bobbed astern, Italians pulling themselves aboard. Where were the Russians?

He knew. They were coming. They always came.

Basaev studied the now-straight line of foam marking the wake, then rose cautiously and turned toward Sultanahmet, mentally extending the track. The bow pointed to sea, but the current set the ship to starboard, and she might yet graze the shore. God willing, he would succeed. If he could hold off the Russians.

He put his assault rifle in single-shot mode and ran to the catwalk behind the wheelhouse. He rushed to port on the catwalk and then quickly walked backward, his gun pointed down, as he blasted the metal clips securing the aluminum grating. He retraced his route, ripping up sections of grating as he walked backward this time, tossing them over the rail to clatter on the deck far below. In less than a minute he had created a gaping chasm behind the wheelhouse, blocking the access to both the starboard bridge wing and the single ladder to the top of the wheelhouse.

Next he ran through the wheelhouse to the port side and slammed the heavy sliding door and locked it. They couldn’t come through, over, or around the wheelhouse now to get at him on the starboard bridge wing. The exterior doors into the deckhouse and the doors of the central stairwell were still booby-trapped on the upper levels, and if they tried to come up the starboard exterior stairway, they would be sitting ducks as he fired down at them through the open treads of the stairway. He could hold them off for an hour here. He needed only minutes.

Basaev positioned himself at the top of the stairway, facing ashore with his back to the wheelhouse. His eyes flickered between the stairwell and the crowded shore as Sultanahmet drew closer.

Main Deck
Port Side of Deckhouse
M/T Contessa di Mare
0.10 Miles North of Sultanahmet

Dugan jumped at the sound of firing followed by metallic clanging from behind the deckhouse. “OK, I guess he’s not dead,” Dugan said.

“What is fanatic doing?” Borgdanov asked as the sliding door crashed shut two decks above them.

“I think he’s getting ready for us,” Dugan said. “Maybe it’s time for Plan B. Let’s try the stairs inside.”

Borgdanov nodded and spit out a stream of Russian. The sergeant moved to the deckhouse door and began to ease it open.

He froze and pointed to a thin wire visible through the narrow crack of the open door.

Borgdanov cursed. “Booby trap.”

“Can’t you cut the wire? Disarm it?” Dugan asked.

“
Da
,” Borgdanov said, “but it must be done carefully, and if there is one, I think there are others, and there is no time. We must go up. Now,” he said and started up the exterior stairs.

Starboard Bridge Wing
M/T Contessa di Mare
Sultanahmet 100 Feet from Shore

The crowd milled and pointed as the ship approached, the locals long accustomed to the nearness of ships, and the tourists following their lead. Basaev’s hopes of grounding died, stillborn, as water trapped between the bank and boxy hull cushioned the ship and she began to sheer away. He raised the detonator, and some in the crowd mistook it for a wave, but those nearest saw the bloody face and rifle and turned to claw through the crowd as his cry pierced the air.

“
Aallaaahuuu Aak
…”

Basaev’s wrist smashed the rail, and the detonator flew overboard. The pilot rolled off his arm and sank to the deck, back against the rail, smiling as he finished the cry, “
Akbar
.”

“What have you done, Excrement of Satan!”

“As you… advised… petitioned Allah. For… for… strength to stop murder… in His Name.”

Enraged, Basaev fired into the Turk’s face until no face remained. He looked back landward and watched the gap widen as ashore the fleeing clashed with the ignorant that were pressing forward for a better look. He reached for a grenade, then remembered Shamil took them all. He rushed forward and leaned over the wind dodger to spray the main deck with bullets, smiling as the rounds sparked through the maze of pipes, until his gun fell silent, magazine depleted on the Turk.

Port Bridge Wing

Dugan reached the port bridge wing on the Russians’ heels just as a burst of automatic fire rose from the starboard wing. They caught a glimpse of the terrorist through the side windows of the wheelhouse, firing wildly at something at his feet. They ducked down before he saw them, and the sergeant raced forward, keeping low. He tried the sliding door into the wheelhouse, then turned to Borgdanov and shook his head.

Borgdanov nodded and rushed aft, the others at his heels. They turned the corner of the wheelhouse and stopped, brought up short by the gaping chasm where the catwalk had been. They returned to their starting point as gunfire erupted again to see the terrorist leaning forward over the wind dodger, spraying the main deck with bullets.

“Christ. He’ll detonate the fumes. Shoot the bastard through the windows!” Dugan yelled.

Dugan backed up from the window with the Russians as the pair opened fire at the terrorist in full auto. The bridge windows were laminated double thicknesses of toughened, tempered glass, designed to withstand hurricane-force winds. The port-side glass spiderwebbed with cracks as the bullets penetrated, then whipped across the wheelhouse and through the starboard-side glass with the same result. Deflected by the double impact, the Russians’ fire was wildly inaccurate, and the bullet-riddled glass clung tenaciously in place, obscuring their target.

Starboard Bridge Wing
M/T Contessa di Mare
Sea of Marmara
1,000 Feet South of Sultanahmet

Basaev reached in his pocket for a fresh magazine and found none, then pulled his Beretta, cursing the infidel engineer for stopping the fans. Wind dissipated the fumes, and igniting the invisible pockets remaining was hit or miss. He fired methodically now, placing shots around the nearest cargo-tank hatch in hopes of igniting the fumes.

Basaev jerked as bullets sprayed through the bridge window, and bits of glass peppered his neck and the side of his face. But no bullets hit him, and he resumed his measured fire, oblivious to the Russian threat.

Port Bridge Wing

“I need clear target,” Borgdanov said, and he and the sergeant slapped in fresh magazines as the fire continued unabated from the starboard wing.

Borgdanov yelled instructions to the sergeant, who turned his gun to stitch the window perimeter while Borgdanov held his fire. In seconds the glass toppled from the port window, and the sergeant started on the starboard. The glass crashed from the starboard window, and Borgdanov fired a three-round burst. The terrorist jerked and fell out of sight below the window opening.

Relief washed over Dugan, then quickly evaporated as he glanced forward. They were out of the strait, clear of the approach channel and still moving at three knots toward an anchorage crowded with ships awaiting a pilot. He looked astern. They were well clear of Sultanahmet now, with its hordes of tourists. He turned at a babble of Russian as the sergeant started through the ruined window.

“Wait,” he called. “Where the hell is he going?”

“Ilya goes to check fanatic,” Borgdanov said.

“No time,” Dugan said, pointing. “In two minutes, we’ll crash into one of those ships, and there’ll be plenty of sparks. In this condition, there’s no way she won’t blow. We need to be as far away as possible.”

“But fanatic—”

“Leave him. We missed Sultanahmet and stopped massive casualties. Even if she blows now, she won’t block the channel. We’ve got no engine, no steering, and no time. If we stay here, we’re dead,” Dugan said. “It’s that simple.”

The Russian hesitated as Dugan looked over the rail at the long drop to the water. He thought better of that idea and moved toward the stairs.

“But we must do something,” Borgdanov said.

“Yeah,” Dugan said as he started down the stairway, his injured leg forgotten as adrenalin dulled the pain, “run like hell.”

He rushed downward as fast as his legs would carry him, and behind him he heard the Russians’ voices raised in argument. He was halfway down to main deck when he heard the Russians’ boots clanging on the steel treads above him, coming down fast.