Deadly Straits (Tom Dugan 1)

by McDermott, R. E.

  Basaev smiled. “Praise Allah for Russian targets. Get on the wheelhouse with the Stinger. Shoot the tail like the Iranians showed us. He will spin away.”

  Shamil grinned and rushed inside as Basaev moved in to call the engine room.

  “Doku,” Basaev said, “we will be attacked. I will transfer engine control to you. They know of us, so we no longer need to follow rules. Go to sea speed, send Aslan to the Cargo Control Room to prepare to discharge, and arm booby traps on all the engine-room doors.”

  “At once,” Doku said and hung up.

  Basaev called to Shamil as he hurried past.

  “Take time to aim well. A few of them on deck are less a threat than a flaming chopper.”

  Shamil nodded, annoyed.

  Basaev grinned. “Besides, why should you have all the fun?”

  Shamil returned his grin and hurried out.

  ***

  Dugan stood terrified as wind and noise blasted him. The major yelled in his ear.

  “On ‘set,’ wrap arms around my neck and legs around my body like lover. On ‘go,’ I jump. Don’t worry. I control everything.” Dugan nodded mutely as the Russian continued. “Ilya goes first and will hold rope. When we land, I unclip here”—he put Dugan’s hand on the carabiner clip—”and we separate. Fast. Understand?”

  Dugan nodded again and was still pondering his lunacy when the sergeant disappeared. Seconds later he was hurtling downward, a death grip on Borgdanov.

  “Release my arm, idiot! I cannot control speed,” the Russian screamed.

  He made his point by smashing his helmet into Dugan’s battered face. Dugan’s hands flew to his nose, and Borgdanov stopped their plunge abruptly, just above deck. Dugan’s legs jerked free, leaving the pair joined by their web gear and spinning. They hit the deck hard, Borgdanov on top. Dugan lay gasping as the Russians clawed at the snarled rope.

  Flying Bridge

  M/T Contessa di Mare

  Passing First Bosphorus Bridge

  Shamil sat, elbows on knees and the Stinger on his shoulder as the bridge loomed. A man dropped into view as the bow cleared the span, the chopper still shielded. The man landed cleanly in a clear area of the main deck just aft of the raised forecastle deck and pulled the rope taut for a pair of men that followed, faster and without grace, landing in a jumble of flailing limbs.

  Shamil could see the chopper skids now and waited impatiently. Then it was there, and he locked on to the tail rotor and fired. A fireball bloomed, and he panicked momentarily as a flaming chunk plunged, narrowly missing the bow to splash into the sea. The chopper corkscrewed away, slinging black-clad Russians to their deaths.

  “Allahu Akbar!” he screamed.

  Near the Bow

  M/T Contessa di Mare

  The sergeant released the rappelling rope and leaped back as the two men slammed to the deck. He watched the rope jerk taut as an explosion rocked the chopper and it twisted away, dragging the mass of tangled limbs and twisted rope toward the ship’s rail. He grabbed the rope one-handed, dragged along as he reached into his boot with his free hand and pulled a knife to saw at the rope. Ten feet from the rail, the rope parted, and the men collapsed in a heap.

  He recovered first to cut the men apart and hook a hand in Borgdanov’s armor and drag him under the protection of the centerline pipe rack. He turned to see the American limping to join them.

  ***

  Dugan was unsure whether his nose or rope-burned leg hurt worse. The Russians seemed indestructible. They conferred, heads together, looking aft with undisguised hatred.

  “OK,” Borgdanov said. “We go back. Ilya first, then you Dugan, while I give cover fire. Then Ilya covers me. Then repeat.”

  “Cover fire? Smell that gasoline! A muzzle flash will blow us all to hell.”

  “But fanatics shot RPG and Stinger.”

  “Yeah,” Dugan said, “up high. Fumes hug the deck. A flash on the bridge won’t ignite them. The boat exploded away from the ship, and the chopper was high, plus its downdraft dissipated the fumes.”

  “You tell me this now? How we kill fanatics?”

  “You can’t fire here, but you can inside. Air intakes are high, and fans maintain a positive pressure inside so no fumes leak in.” Dugan looked at ripples on the water. “And there’s a good breeze, so the open deck aft is probably OK as long as you don’t shoot forward. A ricochet spark here in the cargo area could be deadly.”

  “So. We go fast and hope fanatics also do not want sparks.”

  Borgdanov spoke in Russian, and the sergeant darted aft.

  “Wait,” Dugan cried. Too late.

  Navigation Bridge

  M/T Contessa di Mare

  Basaev raised the binoculars and watched the chopper careen across the summer sky toward Sultanahmet, leaking Russians. He laughed as it splashed down just offshore, and he saw tiny figures ashore rushing to the water’s edge to point and gawk like moths to a flame. All the more people in the kill zone.

  “Well done,” he said as Shamil returned. “Only three got down, one injured. They cringe beneath the pipes.”

  “I saw. What now?”

  “We give them something to think about,” Basaev said as he called the Cargo Control Room.

  “Aslan,” Basaev asked, “ready?”

  “I need only start the pumps,” Aslan said.

  “Defenses?”

  “The outside doors on this deck are jammed. They can only get to me by entering the deckhouse on the main deck and coming up the central stairwell, and I have the door from the stairwell on this deck booby-trapped. It will explode in their faces. I will finish any survivors.”

  “Draw them to you then,” Basaev said. “Start the petrol early. They may try to stop it.”

  “But it will trail us like a fuse.”

  “Let it cover the strait and increase the destruction,” Basaev said. “Nothing is likely to ignite it before we are upon the target, and if then, momentum will complete our task whether we live or not.”

  “Very well, Khassan,” Aslan said, sounding unsure.

  “Watch from the window, Aslan. Time the start to catch them between the manifold and the rail. Try to wash them overboard.”

  “It will be done, my brother,” Aslan said.

  Shamil yelled a warning.

  “Aslan,” Basaev said, “be ready. They are coming. Port side.”

  Main Deck

  M/T Contessa di Mare

  Dugan peeked around the deck locker at the sergeant crouched behind a tank hatch farther aft, then he looked back at Borgdanov sheltering behind a winch. In the interest of speed, the Russians chose the less cluttered route near the rail, over the piping maze inboard. But as Dugan had anticipated, the sergeant had run out of cover, leaving him a long sprint down the rail past the cargo manifold.

  The sergeant made his move just as Dugan’s neck hair rose at the whine of hydraulics and the rumble of pipelines filling. His warning cry was lost in the growing din of the cargo pumps, and Dugan started after the sergeant in a limping run, screaming. The Russian was even with the manifold when a fluke of acoustics allowed Dugan’s screams to reach him. He stopped and turned as Dugan arrived, oblivious to gasoline trickling into the drip pan beside him heralding torrents to come. Dugan grabbed the Russian and heaved himself backward. They hit the deck hard, the sergeant on top, as an eight-inch jet of gasoline rocketed through the space they’d occupied.

  “Get off me, you dumb asshole!” Dugan yelled, keeping low as he dragged himself from under the Russian. He struggled backward on his elbows to clear the stream of gasoline that shot above them, splashing the rails and deck on its way overboard. When he was clear, he stood and surveyed the situation. He was looking to starboard as Borgdanov arrived.

  “We should’ve gone inboard in the first place. Now let’s try it my way,” Dugan said, limping to the cover of the centerline piping without looking back. He plunged aft through the maze, squeezing over and around pipes, scraping his shins and banging his hel
met in his rush as the larger Russians struggled to keep up.

  Navigation Bridge

  “I cannot see them.”

  “Do not worry, Shamil,” Basaev said. “Our defenses are good. They are few with little time.” He paused. “Depending on their target, you help Aslan or Doku. For now, guard the outside stairways and watch for boats or aircraft. Take a radio. The Turks know we are here, and I doubt they speak Chechen.”

  He pointed toward Sultanahmet. “We meet in Paradise.”

  Main Deck

  Port Side of Deckhouse

  Dugan stood by the side of the deckhouse, watching the gasoline spread in the ship’s wake.

  “Dugan! We must get to the steering place. Now,” Borgdanov yelled over the hydraulics.

  “We have to stop that gasoline,” Dugan yelled back.

  “Nyet. Is fanatic delaying trick.”

  “Look, asshole. They’ll cover the strait, and one spark will ignite it. There are hundreds of people out there on ferryboats. We deal with this.”

  Without waiting, Dugan entered the deckhouse, the Russians trailing. He paused at the central stairwell and motioned the sergeant to guard the stairwell door, then followed his ears down a nearby corridor, Borgdanov in tow. The din in the power-pack room was deafening. Dugan yelled into Borgdanov’s ear.

  “You booby-trap the door. I stop the power packs. We leave. OK?”

  Borgdanov nodded and began taping a grenade above the door. He finished and nodded, and the space fell silent as Dugan pressed buttons and rushed out. Borgdanov followed, looping a string from the grenade over the inside doorknob as he closed the door.

  They retraced their steps, the sergeant falling in behind as they passed, walking backward, gun trained on the stairwell door. Outside, gas barely trickled from the manifold.

  “That’ll distract ‘em,” Dugan said. “Which is good since we have to run aft in the open. They won’t be slow to shoot down at us back here.” He started astern in a limping run before the Russians overtook him on either side, lifting him under the armpits to dash aft.

  Navigation Bridge

  Basaev debated killing his two captives. The Turkish pilot at least understood their intentions by now and might take desperate action. His thoughts were interrupted by the plaintive moan of dying hydraulics. He rushed to the window as the gasoline streams slackened to dribbles.

  “Aslan,” he said into his radio, “why have you stopped?”

  “I did not. They must have stopped the power packs.”

  “Restart them. We must maximize the fire.”

  “I tried, but they switched the power packs to local control. They can only be restarted from the power-pack room. Perhaps they try to draw me into an ambush,” Aslan said.

  Shamil broke in. “All the Russians run aft.”

  Basaev processed that. Why would the Russians go to the stern?

  “Doku,” he barked, “you heard?”

  “Yes, Khassan,” Doku said from the engine room.

  “Is the infidel engineer secure?” Basaev asked.

  “He is handcuffed to the console.”

  “Leave him. The Russians will attack you from the Steering Gear Room. Take cover with a clear field of fire to kill any that survive the booby-trapped door. Warn the infidel to keep the engine full ahead, or we kill his shipmates slowly before his eyes.”

  “Understood,” Doku said.

  “Aslan,” Basaev said, “stopping the power packs was merely a diversion to distract us while the Russians went aft. Get the gasoline going again, then go aft and toss grenades down into the steering gear room. Our Russian friends will be trapped between you above and Doku in the engine room.”

  “At once,” Aslan said.

  As Basaev turned, the pilot met his eyes.

  “You are fortunate,” Basaev said, “to witness the work of Allah.”

  “The work of Allah is not murder. The god you serve is your own twisted hatred.”

  Basaev staggered him with a fist, but the Turk straightened. Basaev hocked and spit. “Spoken like a woman, Whore of the Crusaders.”

  The pilot was calm. “Better that than to be ruled by fanatics. I would prefer death.”

  “A wish I can grant,” Basaev said, drawing his pistol. The Turk smiled.

  “Death amuses you?” Basaev asked.

  “Your arrogance amuses me. These Russians are smarter than you think.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He smiled again, and Basaev pistol-whipped him, knocking him down. He aimed at the Turk’s head, finger quivering, but stayed his hand. Something felt wrong, and he might yet need this Turkish whore.

  Chapter Thirty

  Main Deck Aft

  Entrance to Steering Gear Room

  “Let me go, you asshol—” Dugan stumbled as they released him.

  “Careful, Dugan,” Borgdanov said, “and do not call me asshole.”

  Dugan bit off a response, startled by the view ashore over Borgdanov’s shoulder. They’d increased speed.

  “This is door to steering place?” Borgdanov asked.

  Dugan nodded. “There’ll be another from the engine room.”

  “Ilya goes down first,” Borgdanov said, nodding to the sergeant. Descending between the Russians, Dugan reflected. At this speed, he’d have no time with the controls, likely in Italian, and if he got control, he’d be steering blind. He’d just concluded this was one of his dumber ideas when the sergeant jerked to a stop at voices below.

  Italian voices.

  Dugan pushed him down the last few steps and rushed past, around a corner to a wire-cage locker. The crew stood atop piles of mooring lines, cheering his arrival.

  “We have to free them,” Dugan said. “They can help.”

  Borgdanov aimed at the padlock, but Dugan pushed the gun down, pointing at the steel bulkheads surrounding them. “Ricochets,” he said.

  A man pointed through the chain link. “Matelo—hammer—there.”

  Dugan limped to a workbench to return with a short-handled sledge. He raised the hammer, but Borgdanov jerked it away and destroyed the lock with one blow. Italians boiled out, laughing and shouting as the captain pumped Dugan’s hand, thwarting explanation. The major improvised, grabbing a crewman.

  “Silence, or I kill him!” he yelled to instant quiet.

  “Captain,” Dugan said, “the terrorists will ground the ship and explode her in less than ten minutes, killing thousands. If they succeed, none of us can escape in time. You must help us prevent the grounding.”

  Pandemonium broke out anew as English speakers translated.

  “Zitto!” the captain shouted, restoring calm and turning back to Dugan.

  “How can we help, signore?”

  Dugan nodded to the steering gear. “Have the chief engage emergency steering.”

  “The chief engineer is captive. The first engineer is here.” He turned and spoke to the man who’d pointed out the hammer.

  “Si, Commandante,” the man said and rushed to the steering gear.

  “What more?” the captain asked.

  “Change course to port. And”—Dugan nodded at the engine-room door—”block that door. Maybe wedge it. They might use explosives—”

  The captain held up a hand. “Signore. May I suggest you let us solve these problems while you concentrate on keeping us alive to do so?”

  Dugan nodded, impressed.

  “Grazi,” the captain said, turning to bark orders. In moments, the crew formed a line from the rope locker, passing heavy mooring lines hand over hand and piling them against the door.

  Damn smart, Dugan thought. This might work.

  “A Deck”

  Near Cargo Control Room

  Aslan disarmed his booby trap and descended the stairwell. At the bottom, he crept into the passageway and hurried toward the power-pack room. He was almost inside when the grenade handle clanged against the far bulkhead. He ducked down in the open doorway and looked around, unsure. The grenade took his head of
f.

  Steering Gear Room

  The pile of mooring lines formed a huge Gordian knot from the deck to above the door and ten feet at its base, an impenetrable barrier. Borgdanov nodded approval.

  “Fanatics must come over deck now. But we must kill them without big fight.” Borgdanov’s face clouded. “I worry if, as you say, bullets go forward to make sparks.”

  Dugan nodded. “Me too, but I have an idea.”

  They jerked at the thump of the explosion in the power-pack room.

  “Now there are three,” Dugan said with grim satisfaction.

  Borgdanov shot him an appraising look.

  “You are not such dumb fellow, Dyed.” No derision now. “Tell me your idea.”

  Navigation Bridge

  “What was that explosion?” Basaev demanded into the radio.

  “Nothing in the engine room,” Doku reported.

  “Understood, Doku,” Basaev said. “Aslan, report.”

  After repeated failures, Basaev addressed the others. “I think Aslan has preceded us to Paradise. Doku, what is your situation?”

  “No change. But the door moves a bit, like they push against it.”

  “Understood, Doku. Shamil. Approaching threats?”

  “Nothing,” Shamil said, “but what are the infidels doing?”

  “Playing foolish games as time slips away,” Basaev said. “Soon Allah will vomit on their souls.”

  Engine Control Room

  M/T Contessa di Mare

  Sweat dripped off the chief engineer’s nose as he hesitated, concerned the beduino would return. They didn’t resemble Arabs, but who else would blow themselves up? He turned back to working at a screw with the steel ruler from his pocket overlooked by the terrorists and now his makeshift screwdriver. He gripped it tight, willing the screw to turn before the ruler edge bent. If he could remove the rail support, he could free himself.

  He had no qualms, despite their threats. Any cretino could see the beduini intended to blow them all up anyway, and the chief engineer was no idiot. The oxygen meter showed 21 percent in the cargo tanks with the fans running in fresh-air mode. No one would place a loaded tanker in such a condition unless planning an explosion.