Echo of War (32 page)

After a brief search he found a dive locker on the forecastle. He collected a tank, mask, fins, and headlamp then dumped the gear on the afterdeck and sat down on the dive platform. A rope, knotted to the platform's rail, disappeared into the water beneath the platform. A second rope was knotted to the opposite rail.

“Guides,” Tanner said, realizing what he was seeing.

Litzman had never intended to simply shove the CAPTOR overboard and sail away. Wary of his proximity to the Kvamer Trench, he'd wanted to be sure of the mine's placement. Tanner's abrupt arrival had changed that. These ropes had been put in place to help Litzman guide the CAPTOR sled to the bottom.

Still a chance.

Tanner untied the first rope, tied it to the stern cleat in a figure eight, then did the same for the other rope. He finished donning the rest of the gear, tested the regulator, then slipped into the water. With an arm draped over each of the guide ropes, he flipped over and dove.

As his depth gauge passed seventy feet, the captor sled appeared out of the gloom. He followed the ropes to what appeared to be a pair of makeshift spooling mechanisms affixed to the rails.

Knowing he had neither the time, the tools, nor the knowledge to tamper with the mine, Tanner had decided on the only remaining option: drag the CAPTOR clear of the
Aurasina's
path and dump it into the trench. Eighteen thousand feet beneath the waves, it would sit harmlessly on the bottom until its battery wound down and its sensors went blind.

Working in the narrow beam from his headlamp, Tanner cut both ropes at their spooling mechanisms, then spliced them together, threaded the joined end ‘through the CAPTOR's hoist hook then tied it off. He gave the line several tugs, then finned for the surface.

The CAPTOR emitted a muffled
poosh,
followed by a series of ratchetlike clicks. Tanner stopped, looked back. At the CAPTOR's propeller, a stream of bubbles hissed from a valve.
Engine spool-up,
Tanner thought. The CAPTOR was going through prechecks, which could mean only one thing: It had detected a target.

Pulling himself hand-over-hand along the guide rope, Tanner kicked the surface. The rope suddenly shivered in his hand. He heard what sounded like a pair of firecrackers going off as the cradle's explosive bolts gave way. He glanced back.

The CAPTOR was enveloped in a cloud of billowing sand and white water. As though levitated by some magic, the nose cone appeared, followed by the body. With a high-pitched whirring, the propellers engaged, and the CAPTOR shot upward, trailing a column of foam.

The line snapped taut in Tanner's hand. He let it go and broke the surface. The dive platform was ten feet to his left. With an audible twang, the guide ropes arched from the water. The
Barak's
stern dipped and then began backing through the water.

Tanner stroked over, hefted himself aboard, stripped off his gear. He stopped and cocked his head. Over the rush of the wind, he thought he'd heard something. It came again, louder and more distinct this time: a ship's whistle.

Half-skating, half-sprinting, Tanner moved up the port side, mounted the side ladder, and climbed to the flying bridge. The canvas awning whipped in the wind. Tanner spotted a storage box mounted to the dashboard. He threw open the lid and rummaged around until he found a pair of binoculars. He raised them to his eyes.

Half a mile off the
Barak's
port quarter a pair of red and green running lights emerged from the darkness. The lightning flashed. Tanner caught a glimpse of a towering, blunt-nosed bow and white superstructure.

No more time,
Briggs.
He reached for the ignition key.

The deck lurched beneath his feet. He stumbled backward, reached out, and grabbed the railing. He looked aft. Fifty feet astern, the curved back of the CAPTOR breached the surface, hung there for a moment, then plunged back under. The deck lurched again. Tanner saw white water swirling around the stern. Even against the pull of the
Barak's
anchor, the CAPTOR was steadily dragging her backward.

He cranked the ignition key. The diesels whined in protest, hesitated, then roared to life.

He scanned the dashboard, reading the switches. “Come on, where are you …” His eyes fell on a switch labeled “Emergency Anchor Release.” He flipped it. From the forecastle came the staccato grinding of steel on fiberglass. The anchor fell away.

Tanner looked over his shoulder. Fifty feet astern a rooster tail of water from the CAPTOR's propellers arced into the air. Past that, three hundred yards distant, the
Aurasina
was clearly visible now, her squared bow ramp bulldozing the waves. Her whistle wailed once, then again.

She doesn't see me,
Tanner thought. The weather was too treacherous for lookouts, the seas too heavy for a clear radar picture. The
Barak's
signal was likely lost amid the sea clutter, just another wave crest among thousands. Even if she'd spotted the
Barak,
the ferry's maneuvering capabilities were limited. From her captain's order, she would need a mile to reach a complete stop.

He punched the horn button. Nothing came.

The main generator's down,
he reminded himself.

He shoved the throttle to its stops. The
Barak
surged forward.

The
Barak
's
diesels were more than a match for the CAPTOR'S relatively small power plant, but it wasn't that simple, Tanner knew. With its head start, the CAPTOR was running at full thrust and would do so until either her fuel was spent, or she struck the
Aurasina.

Like a tugboat towing an ocean liner, the CAPTOR had slowly but steadily begun dragging the
Barak
backward through the waves. Reversing that momentum would take time Tanner might not have.

Oblivious to the disaster looming in her path, the
Aurasina
kept coming, closing the gap at a rate of five hundred yards a minute. The math didn't lie. Unless Tanner could reverse the CAPTOR's momentum and stay ahead of the
Aurasina
until the mine's engines shut down, collision was inevitable.

The
Barak's
engines changed pitch, began sputtering. Tanner scanned the dials, looking for some sign of the problem. He spotted a pair of gauges—“Port RPM” and “Starboard RPM”—and as he watched, the port RPM needle began dropping.

“No, no, don't do that …,” Tanner whispered. “Don't!”

The needle fell to zero. The port engine hesitated, roared back to life, then coughed and died. The
Barak
staggered, began slowing. Fifteen knots … twelve … eleven …

Tanner glanced aft. The CAPTOR was skipping along the surface now, plunging from wave crest to wave crest, sending up plumes of spray in her wake. A hundred yards off its nose came the
Aurasina,
plunging and heaving through the swells.

Tanner hunched over the wheel, trying to will life back into the port engine.

The gap dwindled to seventy-five yards, then fifty. The CAPTOR seemed to strain at the ropes as though desperate to reach its target. The
Barak's
nose plunged into a trough. Her engine groaned, faltered. Tanner glanced at the speedometer and saw the needle fall off.

No,
no,
dammit
!

The
Aurasina
loomed over the CAPTOR. Forty yards … thirty. The CAPTOR skipped over a wave crest, arced upward. The
Aurasina's
bow swooped down to meet it.

Tanner cranked the
Barak
hard over. The port guide rope snapped. As if watching it in slow motion, he saw the CAPTOR's nose slam into the
Aurasina's
bow.

In the end, the
Aurasina
's survival came down to a few degrees of angle. While more a frantic, last-ditch impulse than a considered tactic, Tanner's cranking of the
Barak's
wheel nevertheless made the difference.

As the
Barak
heeled over, the sudden shift drew the CAPTOR's nose cone off the
Aurasina's
bow by a matter of feet. Instead of striking dead on, the CAPTOR's warhead struck a glancing blow. The shock wave was diverted up the ferry's stem and down along her hull. In a gout of flame and roiling smoke, the upper half of her bow ramp disintegrated, while the lower half was cleaved down to forefoot.

Raked by a wave of fire, superheated steam, and shrapnel, the forecastle was virtually peeled back, revealing the forepeak hold and part of the vehicle well. The wall of flame swept over the superstructure and bridge, shattering windows, melting aluminum bulkheads, and charring the white paint black.

The
Barak
faired better, but not by much. Though largely spent on the
Aurasina's
bow and into the air alongside her, a portion of the shock wave bulldozed ahead of her, a roiling ball of compressed water that slammed like a freight train into the
Barak's
stern, lifting and spinning her across the surface like a top.

On the flying bridge, Tanner's hands were torn from the wheel. He felt himself hurled first left, then right, where he lost his balance and tipped over the railing. He reached out, grabbed a ladder rung, and slammed into the superstructure. Stunned, he lost his grip and tumbled to the deck below.

He pushed himself to his knees. Fifty yards off the beam the
Aurasina
was shuddering to a stop. Her alarm claxon began whooping. Tanner could see water pouring through the gash in her bow ramp. With a wrenching of steel, a ten-foot section of her forecastle tore away and plunged into the water. She began listing to port.

Through her shattered bridge windows, he could see figures running about. A pair of spotlights on each wing glowed to life, bathing the demolished forecastle in bright light. A voice began calling over the loudspeaker,
“L'attenzione,
l'attenzione
…
passeggero scialuppa di salvatoaggio
…” Attention … passengers to lifeboats …

Tanner staggered into the cabin. Susanna had been thrown from the sofa and lay on her side on the deck. He felt for a pulse. It was there, but very weak. She needed a doctor, and quickly. He repacked towels against her wound, then wrapped her torso in a sheet and cinched it tight.

He sprinted onto the deck, up the port side, and climbed to the flying bridge. In the supply box he found a flare gun. He loaded a round into the chamber and fired it into the sky. Hissing it arced over the
Aurasina
and burst into a waterfall of red sparks.

He turned the ignition key, heard a dull click. He tried it again.
Click.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
Dammit,
please.
He turned the key again. There was a brief whine. The starboard engine coughed to life. He throttled up and spun the wheel toward the
Aurasina.

He circled her bow and down along her port side. Above, passengers milled around the railing, babbling and calling out to one another. Tanner scanned faces, hoping against hope he would spot Cahil. He was nowhere to be seen. Briggs loaded another flare into the pistol and fired it off. It had the effect he was looking for. Passengers began pointing and shouting. A few moments later a crewman in a white tunic appeared at the railing and shouted in Italian over the din, “Can you help? We've—”

“No, no!” Tanner called back. “
Il
dottore
!
Lower you ladder!”

“Eh?”

Tanner hesitated, trying to think, his brain muddled.
What was the word
…
? “
La scala
!”
he shouted.
“La scala
!”

The crewman nodded and hurried off.

Tanner maneuvered the
Barak
alongside. The crewman returned with another member of the crew and together they rolled a rope ladder over the railing. Tanner hurried into the cabin, scooped up Susanna, went back out. As gently as he could, he draped her over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and then, timing his movements with the rising and falling of the deck, mounted the ladder. Helped by nearby passengers, the crewmen began hauling them up. At the railing, hands reached for Susanna. They lifted her aboard and laid her on the deck. Tanner followed. He knelt beside her. “
Il
dottore
!”
he called.

One of the crewmen stepped forward; his nametag read “Marco.”
“Si,
si.
Medico.
”

“Do you speak English?”

“Yes.”

“She's been shot.” Tanner opened her coat to reveal the blood-soaked bandage. “She's lost a lot of blood.”

“I understand.” The crewman examined the wound. “I will take her to the infirmary.”

“Where's that?”

“Deck three, forward of the dining room.”

“I'll find you.” Briggs glanced around, spotted the other crewman. “What's your name?”

“Belio.”

“Take me to the bridge. I need to see your captain.”

They rushed up two flights of ladders to the bridge as Tanner waited in the doorway, Belio ran to an elderly man in a white uniform, whispered to him, then gestured to Tanner. The man strode over. “What is going on?” the man demanded. “Who are—”

“Are you the captain?”

“Yes, dammit! Ettore Bartoli. Who are you? What—”

“You've struck a mine—”

“A mine! What are you talking—”

“Shut up and listen. Half your bow ramp is gone and the other half is split down to the keel. You're sinking. Do you understand me?”

Bartoli blinked, then nodded. “Yes, I—”

“How many cars do you have aboard?”

“Two hundred ninety. Why?”

“We've got ten minutes, maybe less, to make you stem heavy or she's going under. Stack cars on top of one another if you have to, but we have to get your bow out of the water.”

Bartoli began nodding.
“Si,
si
..
.” He turned and started barking orders. Crewmen began scrambling, calling to one another, relaying messages over the intercom system.

Tanner asked, “Are your pumps running?”

“Of course.”

“Can you transfer the output into the aft bilges?”

“Yes.”

“Do it. Have your crew herd the passengers aft. Every bit of weight counts.”

Bartoli shouted more orders, then turned back to Tanner. “Where did you come from?”

“It's a long story. What's the nearest land?”

Bartoli led him to the chart table and tapped a spot. “Susak Island. Four miles to the east.”

“I recommend you head there,” Tanner said. “Ground her if you have to, but get her into shallow water.”

“You think—”

“We won't be able to stay ahead of the flooding,” Tanner said. “The closer we are to land when she founders, the more of your passengers will survive. What's the best speed you can manage?”

“If the damage you described is accurate, I don't dare exceed six or eight knots. Anything more and I'll swamp her.”

Thirty to forty minutes to Susak,
Tanner thought.
Not much time to search eight hundred faces.
Once the
Aurasina
grounded, Trpkova would disappear in the commotion, taking Kestrel with him.

“I need a favor,” Tanner said.

“What?”

“I brought a friend aboard; she's hurt. I left her with one of your crewmen—Marco.”

Bartoli nodded. “Our medical officer, yes.”

“Please see that she's taken care of. Her name is Susanna.”

“Of course; you have my word. Are you going somewhere?”

“I have another friend to find.”

“Go on, then. When you return, be ready to answer my questions.”

As Bartou brought the
Aurasina
about and started her limping east toward Susak, Tanner went below. Passengers, their arms full of luggage and personal belongings, clogged the passageways, trying to follow the shouted instructions of crew members standing at intersections and ladder heads. Children cried and called for their parents. Somewhere a dog started yelping. From the vehicle decks Tanner could hear the honking of car horns and the echo of voices calling to one another in Italian.

Cahil had said Trpkova's stateroom was 3-B-19—third deck, passenger area B, cabin 19. Tanner wasn't hopeful of finding Trpkova sitting in his cabin as the ferry sunk around him, but it was a starting point he couldn't afford to ignore. Briggs descended three levels and headed aft, pushing and weaving his way through the crush of bodies.

He paused at a T intersection. Arrows pointed left and right down the adjoining passageways: “La sezione A/B/ C/D.” Tanner turned left. He passed few people, the bulk of the passengers and crew having abandoned the lower decks on their way topside. He started jogging, reading cabin numbers as he went. A crewman coming in the opposite direction tried to grab his arm.
“Signore
…
tornare
!”
Tanner shrugged him off and kept going.

The cabins flashed past: Eleven … twelve … thirteen. He skidded to a halt outside number nineteen. He stepped forward, put his ear to the door, heard nothing. He stepped back, braced himself against he bulkhead, and charged. The door crashed inward. Tanner rushed through.

The cabin was empty.

He hurried back to the bridge, to find Bartou in conference with another officer, the chief engineer, Tanner guessed, by his lapel pin. “How are we doing?” Tanner asked.

“We've moved a quarter of the cars. The bow is up by a meter, but the pumps are falling behind. The gash in the bow is too big, I fear.”

“How far to Susak?”

“Two miles. Three fishing trawlers off Ilovik heard our distress calls; they're on their way. Others from Rijeka and Pula are going to meet us at Susak, but won't arrive for another hour.”

“And the passengers?”

“So far we've moved roughly three-quarters of them aft.”

“What's your plan for getting them off?”

“The bow ramp is out of the question. When we get nearer to the shore, I'll bring her about and back her into the shallows. With some luck and prayer, we'll try to drop the stern ramp right on the beach.” Bartoli offered a weak grin. “They can march off like Noah's Ark. Tell me: What is your name?”

“Briggs Tanner.”

Bartoli extended his hand. “Ettore. You've been a great help. Now: Tell me what is going on. What happened to my ship? Who are you? You're American, your accent tells me that. Are you some kind of police officer?”

“Your last two questions are complicated. As for your first, the boat I was on belonged to another man. He's been shadowing your ferry. He laid a torpedo mine in your path.”

“My god, why?”

How to answer that? Clearly he couldn't tell Bartoli the whole convoluted story; doing so would only raise more questions he didn't dare answer. “Captain, we've got a bigger problem: I think he may have had accomplices aboard your ferry. The other friend I mentioned was looking for three men.”

“These men—they are still aboard?”

“I believe so.”

“Are they armed?” Tanner nodded and Bartoli said, “Give me their names and descriptions. We'll search for them.”

“I only have a description of the leader.” Tanner gave him Trpkova's description. “If any of your people spot him, tell them not to approach him,” Briggs said.

“Why not grab him immediately?” Bartoli asked. “Surely we could overpower—”

“No,” Tanner said. “Let him get ashore.”

Though unlikely to make any difference if Kestrel were released, Tanner wanted to let Trpkova get away from the bulk of the
Aurasina's
passengers before taking him. If the worst happened, there was a chance Dutcher and the others could step in and get Susak quarantined. Still, Tanner wasn't hopeful—not with eight hundred passengers and an army of rescue vessels and personnel descending on the island.

“Let him get ashore?” Bartoli said with a frown. “He is that dangerous?”

Tanner nodded. “He's that dangerous.”

Ten minutes later Bartou got a call from one of his crew: A man matching Trpkova's description had been spotted on the main deck, aft. Bartoli arranged a meeting place with the crewman—a purser named Salvatori—and gave Tanner directions. Briggs found Salvatori near the rear stack overlooking the afterdeck. Tanner pulled him away from the rail.

“They're down there,” Salvatori said. “I spotted him five minutes ago. There are four men in all.”

Four
?
Cahil,
perhaps
?
“Describe them.” Salvatori did so; the fourth man matched Bear's description. “You're sure they're together?”

“Yes. I saw them all talking.”

Trpkova must have spotted and recognized Cahil. “Here's what I want you to do: Very casually, go to the railing and find them again. Directly ahead of you will be twelve—like on a clock. Come back and tell me where they're standing.”

Salvatori did so and then strolled back. “Three o'clock. They are standing together in a group at the railing.”

Tanner stepped forward until he could see the edge of the railing below. Hundreds of passengers milled about the deck, some standing at the railing staring out at the passing sea or craning their necks forward to get a glimpse of the damage at the bow, others seated on deck, their backs pressed against the superstructure. Spotlights mounted every few feet on the superstructure cast the deck in stark light. The air was filled with the din of nearly a thousand overlapping voices.