The screw yielded, and as he moved to the next, he heard a muffled thump. Would that, whatever it was, draw them back? He swallowed his fear and worked on.
Main Deck at Stern
Dugan looked down at the captain supervising two burly sailors wrestling a square of steel plate up the stairs. That damn thing weighs over two hundred pounds, he thought, hoping this wasn’t a waste of valuable time.
The Russians stood behind opposite corners of the machinery casing, watching forward with hand mirrors, as volunteers from the crew found cover on the stern. There were eleven Italians plus Dugan divided into six pairs, holding things from tools to fist-size bolts. Dugan nodded to his partner, the second mate, crouched behind a mooring bitt.
Dugan jerked at the shriek of steel on steel as the sailors heaved the plate on deck, skidding it edgewise to the starboard rail. They leaned it against a gooseneck vent, and one dashed back to the shelter of the machinery casing, and the other dropped behind the plate as bullets whined off the steel. The man behind the plate unwound a rope from his waist and, exposing only his arms, flipped a loop over the plate to settle six inches above the deck. He cinched the rope behind the upright vent pipe, securing the plate from slipping.
“Tutto pronto, Commandante,” the man shouted.
“Bravo, Mario,” the captain replied from the shelter of the machinery casing. “Uno… Due… Tre… Ora!”
On three, they exchanged places in a rush. The captain squatted behind the plate and peeked down the starboard side. He nodded back to Dugan.
How the hell is he going to conn the ship from there? Dugan wondered.
Reading Dugan’s expression, the captain pointed to the chief mate squatting behind the machinery casing at the small rope hatch. Dugan smiled.
Navigation Bridge
“Shamil. Why did you fire?” Basaev asked.
“The Italians are up to something on the stern.”
“Fire occasionally. Keep them timid. And do not worry so. Success is near.”
Main Deck at Stern
Alarms buzzed up through the rope hatch as the first engineer changed over the steering.
“Tutti pronti, Commandante!” yelled the chief mate, squatting at the hatch.
The captain replied with a helm order, relayed by the chief mate to the man in the rope store below, who shouted it through the wire cage to the first engineer.
Dugan smiled at changing vibrations underfoot as the rudder bit.
Navigation Bridge
“I… I… do nothing,” the terrified helmsman said as the steering alarm buzzed and Basaev jammed the Beretta under his chin.
“Leave the boy alone,” the pilot said, silencing the alarm.
Basaev turned on the Turk. “What’s happening?”
“Obviously, they activated emergency steering.”
“Transfer it back, or you die,” Basaev said, “as will your family.”
The Turk shrugged. “My family is away on holiday in Cypress, so I soon realized your threats were empty. And the Russians control steering at the source. I cannot override, even if I wanted to.”
Basaev watched the bow creep to port, weighing the Russians’ chances of success. Something moved in his peripheral vision.
“Stop!” He froze the fleeing helmsman with raised pistol as the man eyed the door. Then Basaev’s arms were pinned.
“Run, boy!” the Turk screamed, bear-hugging Basaev as the sailor fled out the door to vault off the bridge wing.
***
On the bridge wing, Shamil turned at shouts from the wheelhouse and footsteps behind him. He had no time to act as the young sailor raced past him and vaulted the rail. He rushed to the rail and looked down at a widening circle of ripples, the only evidence of the sailor’s passing. Shots drew him back inside the wheelhouse, to see Basaev push the gut-shot Turk to the deck.
“A slow and painful death, Whore of the Infidels,” Basaev said. “Unfortunately our departure for Paradise will shorten your agony. In the time remaining, petition Allah for enlightenment.”
Basaev spit on the dying Turk and moved to the bridge wing.
Shamil followed Basaev outside. “Who’s steering?” he asked.
“The Russians.” Basaev pointed at the improvised conning station, then looked toward Sultanahmet ahead, the bow now aimed at Attaturk’s statue.
“But why so timidly?” he mused aloud, then smiled. “They cannot see well and fear a drastic turn will leave us slipping on the original course. So, we have time to deal with them yet.”
“Shamil,” Basaev said. “Take the extra grenades. Doku will meet you. You will attack down both sides, coordinating on the radios. They cannot hide from a grenade barrage, and when they retreat down into the Steering Gear Room, we make it their coffin. Multiple grenades down into a closed steel box will finish them.
“Doku can secure the infidel engineer on deck,” Basaev continued. “After the attack, we will force the infidel to transfer steering, or time lacking, steer from there. I will lay covering fire to occupy the infidels while you and Doku position yourselves.”
“Grenades and bullets at main-deck level will ignite the fumes too soon,” Shamil said.
“God willing, wind keeps the stern clear,” Basaev said. “And we have no option.”
Shamil nodded and moved to collect grenades as Basaev raised his radio.
“Doku,” Basaev said. “Meet Shamil on deck. Bring the infidel engineer. Shamil will explain.”
“Yes, Khassan,” Doku said.
Basaev moved inside for an assault rifle to be met with more buzzing alarms and flashing lights.
“Beard of the Prophet. What now?”
Engine Control Room
The chief engineer pulled the rail free and slipped the ring of the handcuff off the end just as the buzz of the steering-failure alarm sent his heart into his throat. The alarm fell silent, and status lights on the console blinked to local control. His shipmates.
He stopped, unsure now how his initial plan to black out the ship would impact his shipmates. But he still needed a diversion, something to draw the beduini here so he could slip by them.
He stopped the fans to the cargo tanks and smashed the controls with a fire extinguisher snatched from the bulkhead. At the console, he stopped the engine and swung the extinguisher in a roundhouse arc against the upright lever, bending it badly and smashing the housing. Seconds later, he crouched in the engine room, watching the control-room windows.
Main Deck at Stern
The captain was squinting down the starboard side, longing for a glimpse of open sea, when the helmsman hit the water cleanly. Seconds later a head broke the surface, even with the stern.
“Bravo, Salvatore!” he yelled, rewarded by an upraised fist.
“Martucci è sfuggito!” the captain called to the crew’s cheers.
***
“What’s that about?” Dugan asked as Borgdanov watched forward with his mirror.
The Russian didn’t turn. “Their comrade on bridge escaped.”
“Good,” Dugan said absently. “When will they come?”
“Soon, Dyed. You should get in position.” Dugan didn’t move.
“Remember. Leave the pins in.”
“It may be your plan, Dyed, but I am not idiot,” Borgdanov said, eyes on the mirror. “You should take cover,” the Russian repeated.
Dugan nodded and moved starboard to dart behind the minimal shelter of a tank vent. He squatted there, feeling the throb of the great engine through the deck and willing the terrorists to come soon. He was rubbing his injured leg when the vibration stopped.
“Midships!” yelled the captain, adjusting to the engine stoppage with a stream of orders, alternating between midships and slight left rudder, coaxing the bow to port without killing speed. This guy’s good, Dugan thought.
Navigation Bridge
M/T Contessa di Mare
A Half Mile from Sultanahmet
“He’s gone,” Doku said. “He stopped everything and destro
yed the controls!”
Basaev watched the bow creep to port. The speed log read six knots and dropping.
“What shall I do?” Doku asked.
“Forget him. Join Shamil on main deck. Disarm all the engine-room booby traps except the steering-gear door and bring the grenades.”
“Khassan,” Shamil’s voice interrupted, “how can we change the steering now without the infidel engineer?”
“Kill the others and put the rudder hard right; it cannot be complicated. Allah provides a target we cannot miss. Call me when you are ready to start aft.”
Main Deck at Stern
M/T Contessa di Mare
0.4 Miles North of Sultanahmet
Dugan cowered behind his cover as automatic fire raked the starboard stern. The fire ceased abruptly, and he tensed at the two-note “get ready” whistle from Borgdanov.
***
Borgdanov was elated. The fanatics’ attack route was obvious. External stairways jutted from both sides of the machinery casing, shielding the portion of the bulkheads forward of the stairways from the Russians’ view. The fanatics would use that, creeping close along each bulkhead and stopping just forward of the stairs to coordinate the attack. He counted on that. Depended on it, in fact. His nagging concern had been when. Now he knew.
The fire to starboard was obviously meant to keep heads down while a fanatic approached. The third fanatic would provide cover fire for the attacker to port as well, and when that stopped, both fanatics would be in place. Borgdanov smiled. Then the surprise.
As fire stopped to starboard, Borgdanov looked over at the sergeant, who nodded, their thoughts identical. Borgdanov whistled softly to the others and leaned back against the casing, grenade ready.
Starboard Side of Bridge Deck Aft
“Doku,” Basaev said. “Shamil is in place. I am coming to cover you.
“Yes, Khassan,” Doku said as he prepared to rush aft.
Main Deck at Stern
M/T Contessa di Mare
0.35 Miles North of Sultanahmet
“GO!” shouted Borgdanov as the gunfire died to port. The Russians lobbed grenades, pins in place, to clang on deck beside the terrorists’ hiding places. Death at their feet and unable to retreat, the Chechens broke cover just as Dugan and the crew also burst forth, each man screaming as they dashed into the open to trade hiding places with their partners, hurling their missiles as they ran.
The attackers were paralyzed by multiple targets and the clang of what they took for grenades on the deck all around them. From semi-concealment, the Russians dispatched the confused Chechens with single three-round bursts. When Basaev emerged on the starboard bridge wing a moment later, a burst from Borgdanov staggered him and drove him back.
The Italians reemerged cautiously, then cheered before being silenced by the captain, who stood smiling at a growing patch of open sea to starboard.
“Paulo,” he yelled to the second mate, “ La zattera! Subito!—The life raft—quickly.”
As the man moved to comply, the captain called orders to the chief mate and moved to Dugan’s side.
“We will miss the headland, I think,” he said, “but the current is tricky, and we can do no more. I ordered the rudder locked amidships and—”
“Commandante,” the chief mate said, “il Capo Macchinista viene.”
The chief engineer rounded the corner, handcuffs dangling from his wrist.
“Bravo, Directore,” the captain said, embracing the engineer before pointing him aft where the chief mate kept a tally as men leaped overboard to swim toward the bobbing raft.
The captain turned back to Dugan. “If the beduino lives, he will explode the ship. We should go, signori.” Dugan nodded and watched enviously as the captain moved to the rail to follow his men overboard.
Dugan turned to Borgdanov. “You think he’s alive?”
Borgdanov shrugged. “I know I hit him. How bad, I cannot say.”
Dugan darted from the shelter of the machinery casing to squat behind the Italian’s makeshift conning station. He looked down the starboard side toward Sultanahmet and tried to gauge the ship’s speed before dashing back to the Russians.
“I can’t tell how close we’ll pass to the headland,” Dugan said, “but my best guess is we’ll be as close as we’re going to get in five minutes. If the asshole’s alive and able to detonate, that’s when he’ll do it.” Dugan added, “My guess is he’ll stay on the starboard bridge wing where he can best judge the distance.”
“Good, Dyed,” Borgdanov said, starting up the starboard side, “we go.”
“Hold on,” Dugan said. “We’ll be exposed if you approach up the starboard stairway. Best go to port stairway to the bridge-deck level. You can attack through or around the wheelhouse.”
Borgdanov nodded and spoke to the sergeant in Russian. The sergeant started forward along the port side in a crouching run, Dugan close behind.
Starboard Side of Bridge Deck Aft
M/T Contessa di Mare
0.20 Miles North of Sultanahmet
Basaev’s head ached where the Russian’s bullet creased his scalp. He wiped blood from his eyes and crawled on his belly to the back of the bridge wing to peer down over the edge. The deck was empty save for Shamil’s body. Streaks of foam marked the wake, and a raft bobbed astern, Italians pulling themselves aboard. Where were the Russians?
He knew. They were coming. They always came.
Basaev studied the now-straight line of foam marking the wake, then rose cautiously and turned toward Sultanahmet, mentally extending the track. The bow pointed to sea, but the current set the ship to starboard, and she might yet graze the shore. God willing, he would succeed. If he could hold off the Russians.
He put his assault rifle in single-shot mode and ran to the catwalk behind the wheelhouse. He rushed to port on the catwalk and then quickly walked backward, his gun pointed down, as he blasted the metal clips securing the aluminum grating. He retraced his route, ripping up sections of grating as he walked backward this time, tossing them over the rail to clatter on the deck far below. In less than a minute he had created a gaping chasm behind the wheelhouse, blocking the access to both the starboard bridge wing and the single ladder to the top of the wheelhouse.
Next he ran through the wheelhouse to the port side and slammed the heavy sliding door and locked it. They couldn’t come through, over, or around the wheelhouse now to get at him on the starboard bridge wing. The exterior doors into the deckhouse and the doors of the central stairwell were still booby-trapped on the upper levels, and if they tried to come up the starboard exterior stairway, they would be sitting ducks as he fired down at them through the open treads of the stairway. He could hold them off for an hour here. He needed only minutes.
Basaev positioned himself at the top of the stairway, facing ashore with his back to the wheelhouse. His eyes flickered between the stairwell and the crowded shore as Sultanahmet drew closer.
Main Deck
Port Side of Deckhouse
M/T Contessa di Mare
0.10 Miles North of Sultanahmet
Dugan jumped at the sound of firing followed by metallic clanging from behind the deckhouse. “OK, I guess he’s not dead,” Dugan said.
“What is fanatic doing?” Borgdanov asked as the sliding door crashed shut two decks above them.
“I think he’s getting ready for us,” Dugan said. “Maybe it’s time for Plan B. Let’s try the stairs inside.”
Borgdanov nodded and spit out a stream of Russian. The sergeant moved to the deckhouse door and began to ease it open.
He froze and pointed to a thin wire visible through the narrow crack of the open door.
Borgdanov cursed. “Booby trap.”
“Can’t you cut the wire? Disarm it?” Dugan asked.
“Da,” Borgdanov said, “but it must be done carefully, and if there is one, I think there are others, and there is no time. We must go up. Now,” he said and started up the exterior stairs.
; Starboard Bridge Wing
M/T Contessa di Mare
Sultanahmet 100 Feet from Shore
The crowd milled and pointed as the ship approached, the locals long accustomed to the nearness of ships, and the tourists following their lead. Basaev’s hopes of grounding died, stillborn, as water trapped between the bank and boxy hull cushioned the ship and she began to sheer away. He raised the detonator, and some in the crowd mistook it for a wave, but those nearest saw the bloody face and rifle and turned to claw through the crowd as his cry pierced the air.
“Aallaaahuuu Aak…”
Basaev’s wrist smashed the rail, and the detonator flew overboard. The pilot rolled off his arm and sank to the deck, back against the rail, smiling as he finished the cry, “Akbar.”
“What have you done, Excrement of Satan!”
“As you… advised… petitioned Allah. For… for… strength to stop murder… in His Name.”
Enraged, Basaev fired into the Turk’s face until no face remained. He looked back landward and watched the gap widen as ashore the fleeing clashed with the ignorant that were pressing forward for a better look. He reached for a grenade, then remembered Shamil took them all. He rushed forward and leaned over the wind dodger to spray the main deck with bullets, smiling as the rounds sparked through the maze of pipes, until his gun fell silent, magazine depleted on the Turk.
Port Bridge Wing
Dugan reached the port bridge wing on the Russians’ heels just as a burst of automatic fire rose from the starboard wing. They caught a glimpse of the terrorist through the side windows of the wheelhouse, firing wildly at something at his feet. They ducked down before he saw them, and the sergeant raced forward, keeping low. He tried the sliding door into the wheelhouse, then turned to Borgdanov and shook his head.
Borgdanov nodded and rushed aft, the others at his heels. They turned the corner of the wheelhouse and stopped, brought up short by the gaping chasm where the catwalk had been. They returned to their starting point as gunfire erupted again to see the terrorist leaning forward over the wind dodger, spraying the main deck with bullets.
“Christ. He’ll detonate the fumes. Shoot the bastard through the windows!” Dugan yelled.
Deadly Straits (Tom Dugan 1) Page 28