Deadly Straits (Tom Dugan 1)

by McDermott, R. E.

  Dugan backed away, alarms clanging at “Agent Dugan.”

  “Look. I’ll just be in the way.”

  “Da, but you are American. We go to extreme range and must land in Turkey after, but Turks deny permission because we are Russians. So, we become multinational force, da? Turks are in NATO and will accept American-led force. You are only American close enough, so”—he smiled—”you are leader.”

  “I’m not CIA,” Dugan insisted.

  “Gardner explained you have to say this, but do not worry, Dugan. Now you work with us. This man Gardner agreed on conference call. Is his idea. He is your CIA superior, da?”

  “Shit,” Dugan said, pulling out his phone. The sergeant snatched it, smirking. Dugan swallowed his anger, his judgment improved since Panama.

  “Communications blackout,” Borgdanov said, adding, “Dugan, is safe. You are here for show. You stay with chopper.”

  “I am not getting on that fucking chopper.”

  Borgdanov’s face clouded as he drew his pistol. “Understand, Dugan. Body of CIA man and American passport is enough I think, maybe easier. Our American leader maybe killed during attack on ship. You decide.”

  Dugan swallowed his heart and nodded.

  Borgdanov smiled, holstering his gun and unleashing a burst of Russian that had Sergeant Denosovich and another Russian tugging off Dugan’s jacket.

  “But why do I have to wear this shit?”

  “Must look good for Turks, and armor is in case terrorist bastard shoots at chopper.”

  So much for safe, Dugan thought as he struggled with the unfamiliar gear and the sergeant’s running commentary drew chuckles from the others.

  “I’d feel better if Sarge here didn’t say ‘dead’ every second sentence.”

  “Not ‘dead,’ Dugan. ‘Dyed.’ Short for ‘dyedushka,’ or grandfather.”

  Dugan glared at the sergeant, who grinned back and spit out a stream of Russian.

  “What did he say?” Dugan asked, still glaring.

  “He says that from looks of grandfather’s face, he has seen recent combat, but he doesn’t think you win this fight.”

  Borgdanov struggled to keep a straight face.

  “Actually, Dugan,” he added, “dyed is term of great respect.”

  I guess that explains the shit-eating grins, Dugan thought.

  The sergeant looked him over. Satisfied, he ripped the Russian Federation tricolor from Dugan’s shoulder and pressed an American flag patch onto the Velcro. He moved beside Borgdanov, and to Dugan’s amazement, both came to attention and saluted.

  “Agent Thomas Dugan of American CIA. I greet you as American component and Commander of Multinational Strike Force One.” Borgdanov snapped his hand down.

  “Now get in chopper.”

  ***

  Dugan sat beside the major, facing backward at the others. A man pointed, and Dugan saw another helicopter. He looked quizzically at Borgdanov, who produced a headset, miming for Dugan to put it on as he did the same with another.

  “Is Captain Petrov’s team. They assault. We are support and backup. Always we send two teams. How you say? Redundancy?”

  Dugan nodded. “What’s the plan?”

  “We attack at sea. Both choppers come in high, then drop and sweep bridge with Gatling guns. Then we circle while Petrov closes. They use ropes. How you say…”

  “Rappel?”

  “Da, rappel. Then Petrov kills fanatics and stops ship. Your CIA says four fanatics on board. We should kill one or two on bridge. Should not take so long for others.”

  “What about the bridge crew?”

  Borgdanov seemed confused. “They die. Of course.”

  Dugan stared. “That’s the plan?”

  “Da. We have fuel to stay a few minutes only. If ship gets to Bosphorus, many people die, including all crew. We save many people, maybe even some crew. Is better, da?”

  Brutal, but logical. Dugan nodded without speaking, listening to exchanges in Russian between the choppers. Then came a lengthy burst, the voice strained. Borgdanov responded, triggering an argument. Borgdanov screamed a final “nyet” and a short sentence that ended it.

  “What’s up?” Dugan asked when his headset grew quiet.

  “Other pilot complains of very high headwinds. It means increased fuel consumption, and he claims no way to reach target with such winds. He wants to abort. Always these flyers look for tricks to escape duty. I refuse.”

  Their pilot glared over his shoulder, obviously an English speaker. Borgdanov glared back, and the man looked away.

  “But how can you stop him from aborting?” Dugan asked.

  “If he aborts, I say to Petrov to shoot flight crew as soon as chopper lands.”

  Christ, Dugan thought, this is one scary bastard.

  ***

  An hour and a half later, Dugan roused to the pilot’s voice in his headphones. Borgdanov acknowledged the pilot and returned Dugan’s passport, motioning the sergeant to return his sat phone as well.

  “Point of no return,” Borgdanov said, “now we continue to Turkey no matter what. But I need your help. The terrorists have disabled GPS on ship so she is not so easy to find. My plan was to fly to Bosphorus entrance, then north on course for Odessa to find ship, but now pilot says because of wind, fuel is too low for this. He exaggerates, of course, but even so, I think we do not have fuel to waste. With good position, we go straight to ship. I need CIA satellites.”

  “What about your own satellites?”

  “We have not so many now, and they watch US and China, not Black Sea.” He smiled. “I think your satellites already look Black Sea, so no need to retask, da?”

  Dugan nodded, then shed his headset and called Ward, phone jammed against one ear and his finger in the other against the noise of the chopper.

  “God damn it, Tom, where the hell are you? The charter plane pilot said th—”

  “In a Russian chopper over the Black Sea thanks to your asshole boss.”

  “Gardner? Son of a bitch. He’s screwed this up by the numbers. OK, look. Have the Russians—”

  “Too late. We’re low on fuel. You have a position on the ship?”

  “Christ. Langley was to have updated the Russians an hour ago. I guess Gardner screwed that up too.” He paused. “She’ll reach the pilot station four hours early. Your best bet is to intercept just before arrival.”

  “Not good, Jesse. We’ve got strong headwinds. What about the Turks?”

  “Langley’s in contact with Ankara, but it’s a cluster fuck. I have no clue what’s actually filtering down to the locals in Istanbul or to the Bosphorus pilots. We’re dancing in the dark.”

  Dugan sighed. “OK. Got a specific target yet?”

  “We’re still waiting to resume questioning Braun.”

  “Ship info?”

  “Yeah, Anna’s tech wizards converted the vessel particulars sheet to a text message. We’ll send it to your phone.”

  “Thanks, Jesse. Keep me posted.”

  “Will do, Tom. Watch yourself.”

  “Like I have a choice,” Dugan said.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  M/T Contessa di Mare

  Black Sea

  North of Turkeli Lighthouse

  Day dawned as Basaev watched radar dots become ships, converging on the Bosphorus. He moved to the bridge wing, his stomach knot tightening at the sight of the tanker overtaking him, a competitor for the first southbound slot. A slot he had to have to arrive when his target crawled with infidel tourists and fawning Turks.

  Passage through the Bosphorus “without delay or regulation” had been guaranteed by treaty for decades when the Turks moved unilaterally in 1994 to regulate burgeoning tanker traffic. Her northern neighbors protested still, while many Turks pressed for a total ban. Western Europe, hungry for Russian oil, stayed neutral, and a compromise developed. The Black Sea states refused to accept Turkey’s actions, even as they complied, and the Turks let compliant tankers pass. A compromise Basaev
would end, God willing. He moved to the radio.

  “Turkeli Control, this is the tanker Contessa di Mare. Over.”

  “Go ahead, Contessa di Mare.”

  “Our ETA is oh seven hundred. We request clearance, over.”

  “You are early, Contessa,” came the reply, “from your twenty-four hour rep—”

  “Control, this is tanker Svirstroy,” said a Russian voice. “Contessa is not at reporting point. I will arrive first and claim first slot. Over.”

  “Contessa, this is Control. You are cleared for transit. Call the Kavak Pilots on channel seventy-one. Use twelve in the strait, but report on thirteen at Anadolu Light. Over.”

  “Control, this is Contessa di Mare. I copy and will—”

  “Svirstroy to Control. I protest. I was clearl—”

  “Control to Svirstroy. Go to anchor. You are next in queue. Presuming you comply.”

  Basaev smiled. “Thank you, Control. Contessa di Mare, out.”

  “Safe transit, Captain. Turkeli Control, out.”

  ***

  Basaev watched from the bridge wing as the pilot climbed aboard, then moved back into the wheelhouse to wait as Shamil, uniformed as the third mate, escorted the pilot up. He glanced at the helmsman. The young Italian was behaving like the chief engineer in the Engine Control Room, aware the slightest transgression would mean death for their shipmates.

  The pilot arrived and introduced himself, giving cards to both Basaev and Shamil. Shamil went into the chart room, ostensibly to record the man’s name in the logbook. Basaev stayed with the pilot to review a transit checklist.

  In the chart room, Shamil entered the pilot’s name into an Iranian-supplied laptop and smiled. He printed out the information, pulling a pistol from a drawer as the printer whirred, then collected the output and stepped onto the bridge behind the pilot. He jammed the gun to the back of the man’s head.

  “That’s a gun, Captain,” Shamil said. “Raise your hands. Slowly.”

  The pilot complied as Basaev relieved him of his radio and cell phone. Then Shamil handed Basaev the information.

  “Very good, Captain… Akkaya,” Basaev said, glancing through the pages. “And your wife and daughter are beautiful,” he said, displaying photos.

  “Shamil here made a call,” Basaev lied, “and our colleagues ashore are going to visit them. Their safety is in your hands. Will you cooperate?”

  The pilot nodded, ashen faced. Basaev gestured he could lower his hands.

  “All right,” Basaev continued in Turkish. “Proceed and report as usual. No tricks. I speak your language.” The man nodded.

  “Good. Captain Akkaya. You have the bridge.”

  The pilot took over, and Basaev lifted the console phone.

  “Engine Room,” Aslan said.

  “Aslan. Start the fans.”

  In Flight Over Black Sea

  Approaching Bosphorus Straits

  Dugan looked toward the Turkish coast as a burst of excited Russian sounded in his headphones, precipitating a three-way exchange between Borgdanov and the pilots of both choppers. Finally, Borgdanov shot a worried look across at the other chopper and gave a resigned “da” as the other chopper peeled away and headed away from the coast out to sea.

  “What’s up?” Dugan asked when he was sure the Russians were finished speaking.

  “Low-fuel alarm on other chopper,” Borgdanov said. “He has twenty minutes air time, no more. Is no way he will reach Bosphorus with us.”

  Dugan looked at the nearby coast, confused. “But why is he going out to sea?”

  “He has no American aboard,” the Russian said, “and would be big problem if he lands in Turkey. I tell him to go well to sea to be sure he is clearly in international waters. He has enough time to get there and hover while crew deploys raft. Then he will ditch. One of our naval vessels is already on way to pick up men.”

  Dugan was still confused. “Why was he lower on fuel than us?”

  “Because he hovers a few minutes at rendezvous point while we collect you,” Borgdanov said, “and also as primary strike force he has heavier load—five more men and their weapons. Under most conditions, would make little difference, but with this wind…” The Russian shrugged, leaving the thought unfinished.

  Borgdanov spoke in Russian into his mike, and Dugan saw an answering nod from the chopper pilot. The chopper dropped to skim the surface of the water and moved closer to the Turkish coast.

  “I think Turkish radar will pick us up soon,” the Russian said, “but we will stay as low as possible to delay that. We have you aboard, so we can land if necessary.” He smiled. “Assuming Turks don’t shoot us down first and ask questions later.”

  ***

  Ten minutes later, as Dugan watched the Turkish coast flash past the left side of the chopper, a raucous alarm brought another burst of Russian in his headset.

  “Fuel alarm,” Borgdanov said. “Pilot says twenty minutes, no more.”

  “Do we land?” Dugan asked.

  “Nyet,” the Russian said. “We are close now. We will complete mission.”

  He smiled at the worried look on Dugan’s face.

  “Do not worry so, Dyed,” he said. “Always these pilots exaggerate the danger.”

  Dugan was about to debate the point when his phone vibrated.

  “Jesse. Thank God. Talk to me.”

  “I called the Turks direct. The Bosphorus pilot boarded an hour ago. A Turkish Coast Guard boat is closing, but chopper response will take time. I informed the Turks the Russians are in route. They want your help.”

  “An hour ago? She must be halfway through the strait. What’s the damn target?”

  “Braun just talked. Sultanahmet, between Attaturk Plaza and Eminönü ferry terminal.”

  Sultanahmet, a dense square of attractions—Topkapi Palace, the Attaturk statue, the Grand Bazaar, Sultanahmet Mosque, all clustered around the bustling ferry terminal, sure to be thronged on a beautiful summer morning.

  “The Russians have a plan?” Ward asked.

  “Yeah. For an open-sea intercept. Now? Who the hell knows?” Dugan said as the fuel alarm buzzed again.

  Airborne

  Over Upper Bosphorus Straits

  Dugan stared forward as they cleared Fatih Mehmet Bridge.

  “There,” Dugan pointed. “Stay high and hover.”

  Southward, almost to First Bosphorus Bridge, was a tanker with a distinctive green hull and BARBIERO in white letters on her side. A boat sped toward a pilot ladder rigged on the ship’s starboard side. As the boat neared, a figure appeared on the starboard bridge wing, carrying something.

  “RPG,” Borgdanov said as the boat disappeared in a fireball. Dugan watched, stunned. The Russian shook his arm.

  “Dugan. I said how long to target?”

  Dugan looked beyond First Bosphorus Bridge to Topkapi Palace in the distance and did a quick mental calculation.

  “Assuming full harbor speed of eight knots, she’ll pass the bridge in about ten minutes. Then maybe twenty-five more to target. You have a plan?”

  Borgdanov shook his head. “Only that we rappel aboard and try to kill fanatics. If we cannot kill them, we set charges and jump in water. Some people die, but maybe not so many.”

  “What about RPGs?”

  “I think no problem. How far from wheelhouse to bow of ship?”

  “Four hundred fifty, maybe four hundred sixty feet, give or take—”

  “Nyet. In meters, Dugan. In meters.”

  “Sorry,” Dugan said. “About a hundred and forty meters. Why?”

  “Because RPGs accurate to only eighty meters. This we learn in Afghanistan where our choppers have no problem until Americans give savages Stinger missiles.”

  He glared, then continued. “I know these savages. They will not risk blowing up ship with wild RPG shot over deck this near complete success. We circle wide, hide behind bridge, and drop near front of ship by surprise. After that?” He shrugged.

  Hell of a plan,
thought Dugan as the fuel alarm buzzed again.

  Hovering

  South of First Bosphorus Bridge

  The alarm was constant as they hovered behind the span.

  “Will they attack when you board?” Dugan asked.

  Borgdanov looked up from his preparations. “Nyet. They know we must come to them. Two will probably defend engine room with two on bridge. Maybe some booby traps.” He raised his eyebrows. “You have some idea, Dyed?”

  “Sultanahmet’s at the south entrance of the strait. You could override the bridge at the emergency steering station and change course into the Sea of Marmara.”

  Borgdanov looked doubtful. “Fanatics stop engine,” he said.

  “But you’ll be on a new course. A loaded tanker doesn’t stop quickly.”

  Borgdanov hesitated. “We know nothing of these controls, Dyed. For this, you must come. You do this?”

  Dugan envisioned charred bodies in the ruins of Sultanahmet as the buzzing fuel alarm defined the limits of his options. May as well go down swinging. He swallowed and nodded.

  Borgdanov grinned. “Good. So is unnecessary to have Ilya shoot you in painful but unimportant place. You come with me. How you say… tandem jump.”

  Oh goody, Dugan thought.

  M/T Contessa di Mare

  Southbound

  North of First Bosphorus Bridge

  “You are certain, Shamil?”

  “I saw him after I fired the RPG but lost him. You think I cannot recognize a Russian?”

  “Forgive me,” Basaev said, “I was surprised. If the Turks now ally themselves with Russian scum, I strike them with a song in my heart.”

  Shamil nodded as Basaev lifted binoculars and looked ahead.

  He handed Shamil the glasses. “The surface just beyond the bridge.”

  “I see only ripples,” Shamil said, peering through the binoculars.

  “Or a downdraft,” Basaev said.

  Shamil trailed him to the bridge wing. Barely audible through ambient noise was the thump of blades.

  “He hides behind the span,” Shamil said.

  Basaev nodded. “An ambush.”

  “What now?”