Echo of War (31 page)

However aesthetically lacking Franjo's color choice for the skipjack may have been, Tanner now found himself grateful for the battleship gray paint job and matching cover. Trailing less than a mile astern of the
Barak,
the little boat was all but invisible against the storm-churned sea. The rain fell in sheets. Foam and white water cascaded over the cover and poured through the waist skirt. Tanner could feel the chill water sloshing around his ankles.

With one eye fixed on the
Barak's
mastlight and one eye on the ever-shifting waves, Tanner kept the bow doggedly pointed into the motor yacht's wake. Sporadically, as the wind shifted and gusted, he could hear the faint grumble of her engines.

Three miles west of the Male Srakane, he felt the sea changing as the seabed dropped away. Though markedly larger, the swells stacked and broke with some predictability. Using their rhythm, he threaded the skipjack between the crests, darting from one trough to the next with short bursts from the throttle.

Slowly but steadily, he closed the distance to the Barak.

After and hour's travel, a sudden gust brought the sound of the
Barak's
engines. The pitch had changed, Tanner realized. She was throttling down, coming to a stop. He turned the skipjack's bow into an oncoming wave, pushed the throttle to its maximum, and broke through the crest. He caught a glimpse of the
Barak's
mastlight. She lay less than a half mile ahead, her bow tucked tight against the anchor chain.

It was decision time. Until now he'd been concentrating only on keeping the
Barak
in sight, not on what he would do if and when he caught her. He was exhausted; his mind felt sluggish. Having caught his prey, he suddenly realized how dire his situation was.

He was outgunned, outmanned four to one, and was sitting in a glorified rowboat that was slowly but surely sinking beneath him in the middle of the worst storm the Adriatic had seen in a decade.
Could be worse,
he thought.
Could be dead.
Without realizing it, Tanner found himself chuckling aloud.

Then, from the back of his mind, another thought: Perhaps he wasn't unarmed after all. Maybe he had a weapon at his disposal. Of course, if he used it, there would be no turning back, no second chances, and no guarantee of success—which, he thought, would leave him no worse off than he was right now.

He spent twenty minutes maneuvering the skipjack around the
Barak,
until he was dead on her bow. He raised the binoculars and scanned her decks. There was nothing except the faint glow of the afterdeck's spotlight

He ducked beneath the skirt, crawled to the bow, unzipped the cover, and pushed it back. He found the sea anchor—a garbage can-shaped piece of canvas designed to minimize drift—lashed under the gunwale. He unwound the painter line and tossed the anchor overboard.

His plan required little preparation. He found the skipjack's emergency kit, removed the flare gun and three spare flares, and stuffed them into his jacket. Next he unbolted the spare fuel can from its bracket beside the motor. Judging by its heft, it contained about eight gallons. He wedged it under the front seat.

He cast a glance at the
Barak.
He'd drifted too close. He scrambled to the stern, started the engine, and backed up a hundred yards.

One more task to complete. Using his folding knife, he punched three holes in the bottom of the fuel can. Oily liquid began gushing into the bottom of the boat. The tang of petroleum filled his nostrils. Staring at the fuel lapping at his ankles, Briggs felt a twinge of doubt. This was not, he thought, the smartest thing he'd ever done.
Then don't think about it,
he commanded himself.
Do it.
He pulled out the flare gun, loaded a flare into the chamber, and stuffed the other two into his pocket.

He cut the sea anchor free, then took his seat at the stern. He jerked the starter cord, then throttled up and turned for the
Barak.

He ran her at full speed, pounding from wave top to wave top until he was twenty yards off her bow. He banked to port, ran for another ten seconds, then banked again. As he drew even with her beam he heard a shout. He glanced right. A figure was standing at the
Barak's
railing.

“Karl!” the man shouted.
“Eine boot
!”

“Was
?”

“Eine boot
!”

“Auf scheissen
!
Wir sind fast fertig
!”
came another voice, this one Litzman's. Shit! We're almost done!

A second figure rushed to the railing. In his peripheral vision, Briggs saw both men lift objects to their shoulders. Overlapping
cracks
echoed over the water. A chunk of the skipjack's gunwale splintered. Tanner hunched over. A bullet sparked on the motor housing.

He glanced right, gauging his distance to the
Barak.
On the afterdeck he could see the outline of the sled, its aluminum rails glinting under the spotlights. They had uncrated the CAPTOR and it now sat strapped in the cradle, a blunt-nosed cylinder of black steel six feet long and as big around as a sewer pipe.

Standing beside the CAPTOR's access hatch was Litzman. As Tanner watched, Litzman's hands worked inside the hatch for a few more moments, then slammed it shut. He began hurriedly working at one of the floats. Opposite him, another man was doing the same.

A pair of bullets tore into the skipjack's hull. Tanner ducked down. He peeked over the gunwale to get his bearings.
Now
!
He cut the skipjack sharply to the right, aimed its nose toward the
Barak's
afterdeck, and jammed the throttle to its stops.
Thirty feet to go.

Litzman glanced over his shoulder, turned back to the CAPTOR.

From the railing, the muzzle flashes were coming rapidly now. Bullets peppered the skipjack's hull. Fist-sized holes appeared in the hull. Riddled, a three-foot section of gunwale tore free and disappeared into the water. The skipjack veered right. Water sloshed over the side. The motor whined, sputtered, bit down again.

Twenty feet.
Tanner felt a bullet pluck at the shoulder of his coat, felt a sting in his bicep.

On the afterdeck, Litzman shouted to the other man,
“Fertig
…
zuschieben
!”

He and the other man ran to the rear of the sled, put their shoulders to it, and began shoving it toward the stern. Tanner was fifteen feet away. The
Barak's
side loomed before him.

“
Zuschieben
!”
Litzman screamed at the other man.
“Zuschieben
!”

Together they gave the sled one final shove. It slipped onto the diving platform, where it teetered for a moment, half on deck, half in the water, then tipped upright and plunged into the waves. Litzman and the other man scrambled toward the cabin.

Tanner pulled the flare gun from his pocket, pointed it into the bottom of the skipjack. He released the throttle, flipped his legs over the side, then pulled the trigger and rolled into the water.

Diluted by the seawater, the fuel-oil mixture failed to explode, but simply ignited with a
whoosh.
In the split-second before impact a wave slammed into the skipjack's bow. Rudderless and powerless, it veered right, slammed into the Barak's gunwale, then started sliding aft along the hull.

Watching from the water, Tanner's heart sank. It wasn't going to work.

Then, as it had all night, the sea abruptly changed and gave him the break he needed.

A trough opened beneath the
Barak.
Her afterdeck dropped away. Above her, the skipjack rolled onto its side and skidded across the
Barak's
gunwale, spilling flaming fuel oil as it went. Afterdeck ablaze, the
Barak
bucked upward. The skipjack rolled off the stern, wallowed for a few seconds, then capsized and sunk from view.

Tanner started stroking toward the
Barak.
He heard a shrill scream.

Engulfed in flame, arms flailing, a man appeared on the afterdeck.
“Ach,
Got
…
helfen sie
!”
The man spun in a circle, crashed into the gunwale, and fell to his knees. He reached up, grabbed the gaff pole jutting from the gunwale and pulled himself upright. He tipped over the side. The screaming stopped.

Tanner reached the
Barak's
side. The afterdeck was still burning, but as he watched, the flames sizzled out as the rain flushed the fuel oil down the scuppers and into the water. Feet pressed against the hull in case he needed to escape a sudden roll, Tanner tried to gauge the rising and falling of the gunwale. At the right moment, he reached up and hooked both hands onto a cleat. The
Barak
heaved upward, dragging him out of the water and tossing him onto the afterdeck.

A puddle of burning fuel oil sloshed over his boot, igniting it. He slapped it out, then rose to his knees and looked around. Across the deck lay another of Litzman's men; still smoking, the body flopped against the gunwale in time with the rocking of the deck.

To Tanner's left was the door to the main cabin. It swung open, banged against the bulkhead. Tanner started, half-expecting to see a figure charging out at him. The doorway was empty; beyond it, the cabin was dark. The
Barak
rolled again and the door slammed shut.

Of Litzman's team, two men were dead, which left two alive, including Litzman. How much time did he have? Clearly Litzman had armed the CAPTOR before pushing it overboard. Tanner was confident Cahil could stop the
Aurasina
as planned, but there was too much at stake to assume anything. How long before she was within range? What of the CAPTOR itself? Once overboard, it would have drifted as it descended, but in what direction?

On impulse, Tanner reached for the sat phone. It was gone, lost in the ocean.

Stop.
Prioritize.
Deal with Litzman
;
deal with the CAPTOR
;
find Susanna.

He looked around for a weapon. There was nothing. He jerked the gaff from its gunwale bracket. It was six feet long and tipped by a hook as big around as his thumb. Not as good as a gun, but it would have to do.

First,
clear the main deck,
then
—

The cabin door banged open. Tanner spun, leveled the gaff. As before, the doorway was empty, dark.
Nothing.
Briggs lowered the gaff. A figure appeared in the doorway. Tanner glimpsed the outline of a rifle—an AK-47—in his hands. Confined by the door's threshold, it took the man a precious two seconds to bring the AK's barrel up and around.

Gaff held before him like a lance, Tanner lunged forward. He jabbed the tip of the gaff into the man's sternum. He let out an explosive gasp. Tanner jerked the gaff downward, hooked the AK by the barrel, and yanked hard. Hand caught in the AK's sling, the man staggered forward. Tanner sidestepped, let him pass, then reversed the gaff and brought the wooden end down onto the crown of his skull. The man pitched forward, skidded across the deck, and lay still.

Behind Tanner came another sound, a muffled cry. Briggs whirled around. Susanna stumbled through the doorway and onto the deck. On impulse, even as he realized his mistake, Tanner rushed forward and caught her in his arms.

Litzman stepped out of the cabin, AK held level at his waist. He gestured with the barrel. “Drop the gaff,” he ordered. Tanner did so. Litzman cocked his head, studying Tanner's face. “Our stowaway from the
Sorgia.
Good swimmer.”

Tanner didn't reply; there was nothing to say. Litzman was going to kill them. The only question was, how soon and which of them would go first? Realizing his escape plan was in jeopardy, Litzman was probably weighing options, deciding his best course.
Cross him up
;
make him think
;
buy time.

“We've met before,” Tanner said. “Bishkek … an apartment off the Chuysky.”

Litzman nodded slowly. “That was you?”

“Yes.”

“Too bad I missed you. You lost a lot of men that day.”

“Yes.” Tanner felt the knot of rage tightening in his chest. He could feel Susanna shivering against him. He glanced at her face. Her lip was split and her chin was caked in dried blood.

Tanner looked back at Litzman. “Let her go, Karl. Put her in the Zodiac and let her go.”

“She's outlived her usefulness.”

Tanner momentarily assumed the comment was a sexual reference, but something in Litzman's tone said otherwise. What did he mean? Tanner wondered. From the back of his mind a word surfaced:
groundwork.
Like Fikret Zukic and the
Bihac Istina,
was Susanna nothing more than window dressing for the operation? If so, that meant …

“How did you find out?” Tanner asked Litzman. “Gunston?”

Litzman hesitated, then nodded. “After one of their meetings we followed him. He was sloppy. He went straight back to the embassy. From there it didn't take much to realize who and what he was.”

There it is,
Briggs thought. Having realized his new girlfriend was working for the CIA, Litzman had turned her into an unwitting conduit to the U.S. government. All the conversations she'd overheard, all the names, all Litzman's side trips—all of it was meant to reach the CIA as eventual proof of Trpkova's—and thereby Bosnia's—attack on the
Aurasina.

Having watched their exchange in silence, Susanna now spoke up. “You knew?” she cried. “You son of a bitch!” She pulled away from Tanner and took a tentative step toward Litzman, who followed her with the AK's barrel.

Tanner reached for Susanna. She shrugged off his hands and kept sidestepping, her eyes fixed on Litzman. “You used me. My god …”

Litzman gave her a grim smile, but said nothing. Tanner watched his eyes, saw them change.
He's done talking.
Which one of us first
?

“Why?” Susanna murmured.

Her voice sounded distant, befuddled. Tanner knew what was happening. Faced with Litzman's revelation, the walls she'd built up to protect herself had come tumbling down. In the space of thirty seconds, nine months of terror and humiliation came flooding back. And here standing right in front of her, was the cause of it all. Not only had Litzman driven her into the darkest parts of her psyche, but with a single bullet he'd crippled her father and swept away her childhood.

“You didn't have to,” she muttered, staring at him. “I didn't … I …”

Tanner saw Litzman's hand tighten on the AK's stock. Ever so slightly the barrel began drifting toward Tanner. Briggs readied himself. If he could wrap Litzman up, Susanna might have a—

“You bastard!”

Screaming, her arms flailing, Susanna charged Litzman. With a flick of his forearm, Litzman snapped the AK upward, the barrel catching her across the jaw. She went sprawling into the gunwale. Litzman took aim and fired. Tanner saw Susanna convulse with the impact, then slump to the deck.

Litzman spun on Tanner.

Briggs was already moving. Dropping into a crouch, he snatched the gaff off the deck and swung it in a short arc. The hook buried itself into the meat of Litzman's calf. Litzman screamed, but kept turning, trying to bring the AK to bear. Tanner jerked the gaff. Litzman's leg went out from under him. He crashed to the deck. He struggled to a sitting position and leveled the AK with Tanner's chest.

Using both hands, Briggs heaved backward. The hook tore out of Litzman's calf with a sucking
pop
and spun him onto his side. Litzman cried out. Tanner shortened his grip on the pole, rose to one knee, swung again. The hook smacked across the AK's barrel, glanced off Litzman's chest, and buried itself in the side of his throat.

Litzman let out a strangled cry. He dropped the AK. Both hands went to his throat. Blood gushed from the wound, drenching his forearms. His face showing a mixture of pain, surprise, and fear, Litzman swiveled his eyes toward Tanner. He gave a single, wet cough then rolled sideways onto the deck, dead.

Tanner snatched up the AK, tossed- it across the deck, then scrambled to Susanna.

He touched her face. She moaned. “Briggs …”

“It's me, I'm here.”

Gingerly, he opened the front of her jacket. It was slick with blood. Litzman's bullet had torn through her lower abdomen on the left side. He reached around her, fingers probing, until he found an exit wound.

“Is it bad?” she murmured.

Yes
;
honey,
it's bad.
“No, not at all,” he replied. “You'll be fine. Does it hurt?”

“Numb … sleepy. Litzman?”

“He's gone. Let's get you inside. Try not to move.”

Tanner picked her up, carried her into the cabin, and laid her on the deck, then spent a frantic minute looking for a light switch, which he flipped with no effect. Working from feel alone, he went from drawer to drawer until he found a flashlight. To his right against the bulkhead was a sofa. He moved her to it, found a blanket, and covered her.

“Briggs,” she murmured.

“I'm here.”

“There's a … a … torpedo, or a mine, I'm not sure. Something about a ferry …”

“Don't worry about that right now.”

Tanner ransacked the cabin and staterooms, collecting every sheet and towel he could find. He returned to the sofa, knelt beside Susanna, and began packing the wound. She gasped. “Hurts now.”

“I'm sorry. Can you hold that in place?”

She nodded and placed her hand over the dressing. “Where is it … the mine?”

“Don't talk, Susanna.”

“How many people?”

“What?”

“On the ferry.”

“Eight hundred.”

Susanna's eyes snapped open. She grabbed his hand. “You have to stop it.”

“Susanna, you—”

“No. I'll wait here, hold this in place. I'm fine. You have to stop it, Briggs.”

She was right. His life, her life … Even without Kestrel in the equation, two lives for eight hundred was a fair trade. With Kestrel? Two lives for millions?

“I don't want to leave you,” Tanner whispered. Left alone, she would lapse into unconsciousness and bleed to death.

“You have to,” she replied, then smiled. “I promise to wait right here.”

He smiled back; he felt tears welling in his eyes. “I'm proud of you, Susanna. I'm so sorry.”

“No reason … be okay,” she mumbled. “Go now. Hurry.”

Tanner squeezed her hand once, then turned and walked out.