by Dale Brown
Frankly, Tolevi wouldn’t have had him as a driver, let alone a team leader. He was brusque with everyone he met, and while he did speak Russian, he tried to make up with speed what he lacked in pronunciation. This only emphasized how poor his language skills were.
He didn’t sound much like a Turk either. Tolevi had no doubt their cover story would sink quickly if they were stopped.
Which was why his heart rate bumped up when a second light appeared on the fishing boat.
“I have Puppet Master,” announced White, who was sitting in the cabin just below. “Confirming we’re good.”
“Turn the god damned radio off!” yelled Tolevi. “We have a Russian patrol boat out there.”
“Where?” asked White.
“Why don’t you take a better look at the god damned radar and tell me? That’s what it’s for.”
Bozzone helped Chelsea to the bench in the open area aft of the speedboat’s cockpit and cabin. Her stomach was still queasy, but at least it was empty.
“Water?” he asked.
“No. What’s going on?”
“There’s a patrol boat or something. We got a warning.”
“Where?” asked Chelsea.
“Got me. Ukraine’s on our left.”
“To port.”
“Aren’t you the sailor,” scoffed Bozzone.
“How long?”
“Assuming we get past them and into the Kerch Strait, three more hours. Don’t sweat it; these guys probably do this all the time.”
Tolevi saw the dark outline of the Russian vessel about ten o’clock to port, long and dark and low against the black shadow of land behind it.
It was a big ship, probably a frigate.
Good thing, he thought. They won’t be interested in us small fry.
Except they appeared to be. “Picking up speed, coming our way,” said Porter, who was lookout on the port side. He was an ex-SEAL, which Tolevi found reassuring—if the frigate cut them in half, he’d be able to rescue everyone in the water.
Tolevi jammed the throttle, hoping for a few more knots. The choppy water was cutting down on his speed; he was having trouble sustaining fifty knots.
Still, that was good speed, and he was easily outpacing the frigate.
Wasn’t going to outrun its radio, though. There would be other patrols up in the straits.
Maybe they’d be interested, maybe not. It wasn’t clear that they’d seen them, after all.
“You want to talk to Puppet Master?” asked White.
“No, for crap sake. Tell them we’re good and get the hell off the radio. I can tell you work for the government,” Tolevi added sarcastically. “You’d never make it in the real world.”
89
Boston—same time
“Puppet Master, we are five-by. Signing off.”
“We copy,” said Johansen. He looked up from his station. “They’re good. Just coming up to Kerch Strait, between Crimea and Russia. Once they’re beyond that, there are very few patrols they have to worry about. Four hours from now, they’ll be in Berdyans’k, eastern Ukraine. Or Donetsk Republic, if that’s your preference.”
“There’s a Russian ship nearby,” said Massina, looking at the sitrep screen. It was a satellite map that plotted the team’s position against a constantly updated grid of military and police assets in the region. Touching the screen delivered specific information about the asset—in this case, the Russian guided missile cruiser Moskva. The cruiser was the pride of the Black Sea fleet, its flagship and by far the most powerful craft in the area. Even its smallest gun could blast the speedboat out of the water.
“They know it,” said Johansen. “They’re avoiding it. There are patrol boats in the strait as well. It’s nothing to get too excited about. Tolevi deals with this all the time.”
“He told Bozzone he hasn’t personally gone with a shipment on the Black Sea since before the war,” said Massina pointedly.
“It’s like riding a bicycle. You don’t forget.”
90
Kerch Strait, Black Sea—a short time later
They were past the big Russian ship, but, as Tolevi had expected, there was something else ahead, in the middle of the strait—smaller and quicker. A Rubin-class patrol boat, he suspected, capable of giving them serious problems.
Not as fast as he was, though. And not quite sure where he was yet, anyway.
Tolevi guided his speedboat eastward, heading in the direction of Tuzla Island, a spit of land that jutted out into the strait from Russia. The water there was shallow, not a problem for his craft as long as he was careful about it.
The patrol boat, which would have to be more careful, changed direction as well, heading toward them.
“They’re broadcasting to unknown vessel, asking it to identify itself,” said the CIA man handling the radios. “Maybe they do know we’re here.”
“Or maybe it’s a bluff,” said Tolevi. “We’re not helping.”
Would have been nice if Puppet Master IDed what we’re dealing with, Tolevi thought. Surely they could have done that. What the hell are they good for?
“Ignore them,” added Tolevi.
“Yeah, I wasn’t going to answer.”
The strait narrowed beyond the island, to a choke point less than three miles wide. There was a small Russian naval base near it. If the Russians were serious about stopping them, they could scramble boats from there to virtually blockade the strait.
Tolevi checked his gauges. He had enough fuel in the oversized tanks and auxiliary to get back to Turkey.
Scratch the mission, give it a couple of days before trying again?
Who knew what would happen in the meantime? More than two weeks had passed since he was last in Donetsk. The more time passed . . .
Just get it done.
White poked his head out of the cabin. “What are you doing?”
“Ducking a Russian patrol, what do you think?” spat Tolevi. “I’m going to slide around to the east.”
“You’re heading right toward their base.”
“Relax. We’re not worth getting out of bed for.”
“They can sink us from shore.”
“Unlikely.”
Actually, Tolevi had lost a boat to Russian patrols just after the Crimea takeover, probably in circumstances like this. But this wasn’t a good time to share that information.
“Everybody just hold on,” he announced. “I have to do some maneuvers.”
“Depth is getting very shallow.”
“I can see that.”
He angled closer to the shore, then cut his speed, unsure in the dark what might be ahead. The patrol boat was still coming east, though it was now pointing a little south.
“He can’t follow us here,” Tolevi told White as he cut the motor almost to idle. “We’ll be quiet and slip north.”
“Then what?”
“I’ll tell you that when I figure it out.”
Still a little queasy, Chelsea twisted around on the bench to see what they were running from. The Russian patrol boat was playing searchlights across the water less than two miles away.
“They don’t have a good idea where we are,” said Bozzone. “We’re close enough to the shore that they lose us in the clutter. Their radars are not as good as the radars in the West.”
Something clunked on the far side of the boat.
“Damn!” cursed Tolevi at the wheel.
The motor revved. They tipped sideways. For a moment, Chelsea thought they were going over. Then the boat suddenly surged ahead, swerving and righting itself.
“We gotta make it in one piece!” shouted Beefy.
“Everybody quiet,” responded Tolevi coldly. “Sound carries on the water. Besides, I need to concentrate.”
Tolevi tucked back toward the deeper water. He had the shadow of land on his left.
The next fifteen minutes were critical. If he could get far enough north before the patrol boat turned, he’d be free—it could never keep up in the
shallow water.
On the other hand, if it turned back west and went north now, it could make a race of it. With the island between them, he would have an edge in speed, but it would have a shorter distance.
Fifty-fifty.
Of course, if it turned, it was giving up blocking him from going south. But he’d already discarded that possibility.
A minute passed. Another.
Once past the bottleneck, he’d be good. Keep going.
“She’s turning off,” said Porter.
“Giving up?”
“Moving pretty fast,” said the CIA officer. “West, northwest.”
“Damn,” muttered Tolevi. He slammed the throttle, trying to make the most of his head start.
91
Boston—same time
“There are two more patrol boats coming out in the north,” said Johansen, pointing to the sitrep screen.
“Can we warn them?” asked Massina.
“That will tip the Russians off that something’s there. Better letting Tolevi handle it.”
Massina dropped into his chair, hands behind his head. His artificial limb felt cold.
Helpless.
92
Kerch Strait, Black Sea—minutes later
Tolevi cut the engines, listening to the radio chatter. The Russians were definitely looking for them.
He was north of the island, a few hundred yards south of a rocky isthmus that poked down from the Russian side. If it weren’t for the naval base directly ahead, he could just slide along the beach in the shallow water. But the radio made it clear that the Russians there were alert and he’d have little chance of getting away without being spotted.
“Let me see your NOD,” he told Porter, asking for his night glasses.
The lookout came over with them.
“Take the helm. Just stay on this course, dead ahead, slow, not too much closer to the land.”
“No worries there.”
Tolevi took the glasses and climbed up onto the forward deck, bracing himself on the rail. He couldn’t see the Russian patrol boat that had followed him, or any of the other boats they were talking to.
There was a merchant ship, a smallish cargo carrier, about a mile away in the channel, heading north.
My shadow.
Tolevi scrambled back to the wheel. Revving the motor, he started in a beeline for the cargo ship.
“Keep watching for the patrol boats,” he told Porter and the other lookout. “They’re going to come right down there. Probably they’ll split, one forward, one kind of back up on either side, probably toward land, figuring we’re hiding in the shadows. I’m going to swing around that cargo boat and ride near it for a bit.”
“That’s right in the middle of the channel.”
“Yes.”
Chelsea watched the lights of the cargo vessel grow. It seemed oblivious to them.
“He’s using the bigger boat to hide,” explained Bozzone. “Old smugglers’ trick.”
If there were people aboard the cargo vessel—and surely there were—Chelsea couldn’t see them. The large, lumbering craft stayed on its course, moving very slowly parallel to the shore, in exactly the direction they were taking.
There were one or two ships beyond, one moving north, one coming south. The speedboat slid around the port side of the cargo vessel, slowing to ride parallel.
“There’s the patrol boat,” said Beefy, pointing aft.
“It’s what’s ahead that counts, right?” asked Chelsea. She got up, legs still rubbery, and made her way over to the cockpit area.
“Another patrol boat further north,” said White, emerging from below. “They’re talking back and forth.”
“They see us?”
“No, but I think they may suspect we’re near the cargo craft.”
“What if you had a diversion?” asked Chelsea. “Make them think we’re somewhere else?”
“Brilliant,” mocked Tolevi. “You have something like a destroyer handy?”
“How about some flares?”
“That’ll show them where we are. Go back to throwing up.”
What an asshole.
“If we load some flares on one of the drones and set them off back near the shore,” said Chelsea tightly, “maybe they’ll think we crashed.”
Tolevi didn’t answer.
“Well?” she asked.
“If you can do it, sure,” he told her, the edge in his voice gone.
Chelsea wobbled back to Bozzone.
“Help me get one of the Nighthawks ready,” she told him.
There were two patrol boats north, one right at the choke point and another somewhere farther north, according to the radio steaming toward it. Meanwhile, the craft they had ducked to the south was steaming northward.
Tolevi edged the speedboat so close to the cargo ship that he could just about touch the hull.
One good set of waves and they would be swimming. But at least according to the radio chatter, the Russians still weren’t sure where they were. The cargo ship was like a shield, blocking their view.
Not for long. The boat from the south told the others it was heading for it.
“If you’re launching that UAV,” Tolevi told Chelsea, “do it quick.”
Chelsea inspected the small, battery-powered UAV as Bozzone pulled it from its case. With a wingspan roughly as wide as a desk, the UAV was designed for slow, silent surveillance. It had two electric engines, one front, one back. Unlike Peter, it was not fully autonomous; it needed to be programmed in advance, or, alternatively, it could follow radio commands.
There was a small payload carriage underneath. She could attach a flare there, but how to ignite it?
“How about we put a flare gun there?” suggested Bozzone. “Rig the payload claws to fire it.”
“Yes!”
Chelsea saw it in her head. Rather than firing the flare outward, though, she would fire it at a jug of fuel.
“I need a gas can,” she told Bozzone.
“We can’t afford to lose any fuel,” warned Tolevi.
“We can’t afford to get caught,” she snapped. “I need some of those straps.”
The cargo vessel slowed, complying with an order from the Russians to heave to. Tolevi decided his best bet was to slip in front and run for it. That would hide him from the craft to the south, probably, but definitely expose him to the ships north.
One problem at a time.
He didn’t think Chelsea’s diversion was going to work. But at least the girl was trying to do something, unlike White.
“Stand by!” yelled Chelsea behind him.
The drone started up. It sounded like a miniature electric fan, and not a particularly strong one.
“More speed would make it easier to launch,” she said.
“That’s easy,” said Tolevi, reaching for the throttle.
Before they’d left, Chelsea had practiced flying the Nighthawks, but launching from a moving platform was always tricky. The aircraft dipped as she revved it off the deck, ducking left and heading for the waves. Come on, damn you!
As if hearing her thoughts, the little hawk spurt upward. Chelsea brought the joystick even, leveling off at about a hundred feet. There was just enough light from the deck of the cargo ship to see its outline as she turned it eastward.
The speedboat bounced sharply against the waves as it picked up speed. Chelsea took her hand off the stick, worried she might inadvertently jerk the little UAV into the water.
“It would be great if you could keep the boat smooth!” she shouted.
“It would be even better if we could sprout wings and fly,” said Tolevi.
The control panel had a thirteen-inch screen that plotted the aircraft’s position via GPS; optical feeds from the UAV could also be selected. Chelsea nudged the plane east in the direction of the shore. It didn’t move very fast; at top speed it wouldn’t even be able to stay with the speedboat.
It reached 30.3 knots.
“How far is the
eastern shore?” she asked.
“A little more than a mile and a half,” said Bozzone.
“Do we have that diversion or not?” asked Tolevi.
“I need a minute and a half,” said Chelsea.
“Patrol boat is rounding the cargo ship,” said Porter. “They’ll have a clear view in a few seconds.”
Chelsea switched the control pad to cargo mode, which allowed her to manipulate the claws on the underbelly.
She pressed the right claw button.
Nothing happened.
Damn.
There was another harbor to port about a mile ahead. It was primarily for cargo, with a set of slips at the southwest side used by ferries.
Most likely there would be Russians there, or at least some sort of night watch. But going ashore was better than swimming. There was always a chance they could bribe their way past trouble, unlike on the water.
Assuming they made it in one piece. The Russians were broadcasting to the unknown boat again, and they sounded angry.
Chelsea looked at the controls. What had she done wrong?
She hit the button again, but nothing happened.
Left, right, port, aft . . .
Oh my God, I wired it upside down.
She hit the button for the other claw.
Red light exploded in the sky nearly two miles away, illuminating the night.
“There’s your diversion,” she said, quickly releasing the flare and its trigger.
Tolevi could see the ferry landing less than a mile away when White yelled from below that the Russians to the north had just spotted the flare.