“Attention, commandos aboard the Ustinov, this is the Russian Federation Naval Infantry,” the radio call came. “You have illegally commandeered a Russian Federation flag vessel on the high seas. We have orders to take control of the vessel. We order you to immediately surrender control of the vessel and all of you come out on deck in plain sight and with weapons on the deck.” No reply. “Do not be a fool,” the Russian commander went on. “We have a Russian Navy destroyer less than two hours away. You will not reach any shore before our destroyer reaches you.” Still no reply. “Very well. Prepare to die.”
The Russian transport helicopters kept coming. They were within a mile of the Ustinov when suddenly a bright line of fire arced across the darkening evening sky from the mid-deck of the tanker. A missile struck one of the Russian Federation Navy helicopters, its engine exploded into a thousand pieces, and it plunged into the Black Sea. The other helicopter immediately reversed course and headed back to Russia. A Turkish Coast Guard helicopter, on the scene monitoring the tanker as it headed toward the Turkish coast, was on the crash scene immediately to help rescue survivors.
Darkness had fallen by the time the second wave arrived: a Russian Federation Navy Sukhoi-24 “Fencer” attack plane from Novorossijsk. The Su-24 carried two Kh-29 “Kedge” imaging-infrared guided air-to-surface missiles. It remained above fifteen thousand feet and kept its speed up to avoid being a target for shoulder-fired missiles from the hijackers on the ship. At a range of ten miles, the pilot was able to lock the stern of the Ustinov in his imaging-infrared telescopic sensor. His orders: shoot out the Ustinov’s rudder and propeller and disable it. At a range of five miles, the Kh-29 was within range. The pilot unsafed his firing button ,..
, . . and at that exact moment, the Su-24’s right engine exploded in a ball of fire, and the crew ejected seconds before the whole plane exploded.
It took another hour for a second Sukhoi-24 attack jet to reach the tanker, but it. too, disappeared from radar shortly before launching an attack on the tanker—and it. too, was well out of range of a man-portable antiaircraft missile. Several minutes later, one of the engines on a Russian Federation Navy Tupolev-95 maritime patrol and attack plane inbound toward the tanker was hit and destroyed by another missile, and the plane was forced to turn back.
By then, the Russian Federation Navy destroyer Besstrashny, originally based in Ukraine but moved to Novorossijsk when the ship was transferred back to Russia after the breakup of the Soviet Union, was close on the scene. The tactical action officers aboard the Russian destroyer had warned all air and surface traffic away from the area, and its Kamov Ka-27 helicopter had already been datalinking the tanker’s exact position to the ship. There were several Turkish Coast Guard vessels in the vicinity, all coastal patrol vessels carrying light weapons—no threat to the Besstrashny, one of the largest warships in the Black Sea.
The skipper met with the weapons officers and tactical action officer in the Combat Information Center. ‘'When will we be within range of the Ustinov?" Captain Boriskov asked.
“We are well within range of the 3M-82 Mo skit, sir,” the weapons officer responded. The Moskit was a large supersonic, radar-guided antiship missile.
“I don’t want to sink the damn ship, just disable it,” the captain said.
“Then all we have is the forward AK-130 until we’re within helicopter range,” the TAO cut in.
“What do we target? The rudder area? The props? Engineering?”
“I suggest we hit the superstructure, sir,” the TAO said. “Create some confusion, maybe kill a bunch of the terrorists, and send the naval infantry aboard to try to take control of the ship again. If we disable the ship’s steering and propulsion systems, we could create an even larger disaster if we can’t stop the ship and it runs aground in Turkey.”
“Ask me if I care if it runs aground in Turkey,” the captain sneered.
“But if it did, it would be partially our fault—and that might be the terrorists’ ultimate objective,” one of the intelligence officers said. He lowered his voice, then added, “Remember who owns that ship and its cargo, sir.”
The skipper’s face blanched. Pavel Kazakov.
In the last several months, Pavel Kazakov had become one of the wealthiest, most well-known, and most talked-about men in the entire world. He’d already had an evil reputation that had made him simply dangerous. Now he had real, legitimate power behind him. His oil empire stretched from the Caspian to the Adriatic Sea. He was shipping more oil than half the members of OPEC, and he was doing it more cheaply and more efficiently than anyone could believe. Nations and corporations were becoming rich from him, which meant more and more nations were protecting and underwriting his ventures.
His chief underwriter seemed to be the Russian Army itself. From Georgia in the east to Albania in the west, the Russian army maintained a continuous, ominous presence. Although Russian troops were not in Georgia itself, the Republic of Georgia knew that thousands of Russian troops were massed on its northern border, ready to invade if the government was unwilling or unable to control rival factional fighting in the Nagorno-Karabakh region that might affect Metyorgaz oil- transport operations The Russian army was already cracking dow n on the cross-border movement of Muslim rebels between the province of Chechnya and Georgia, and they were not shy about crossing the border on occasion to pursue Muslim guerrillas. The Russian navy had also increased patrols on the Black Sea to protect increased tanker traffic.
Most significantly, the Russian army was back in the Balkans with a force and presence unseen since World War II. Fifty thousand troops were stationed in eleven key bases in Bulgaria, Macedonia, Serbia, Bosnia-Herzegovina, Croatia, Montenegro, the Serbian provinces of Vojvodina and Kosovo, and Albania, ostensibly as “peacekeepers’’ enforcing United Nations resolutions. Their presence was centered around the new Metyorgaz pipeline route, so there was very little doubt about their real mission, but they also enforced United Nations resolutions and even abided by most NATO rules of engagement and operations orders, operating almost at will throughout the Balkans, from Slovenia to the Black Sea, from Hungary to the Greek border.
But rather than feel threatened, the countries saw this as an advantage. Fighting between the government and gunrunners or drug dealers had all but vanished—the Russian army was ruthless in pursuing anyone even suspected of illegally crossing the borders, selling drugs, or trying to re-arm rebel forces anywhere in the Balkans. Incidents of clashes between Serbs and other ethnic groups in the Balkans, and between the various religious factions, had all but ceased as well. The Balkans were actually enjoying the first real semblance of peace since the bad old days of Marshal Tito.
True, there were always large numbers of Russian or German transport planes on almost every large airport in several major cities in the Balkans, or a Russian or German attack helicopter flying overhead all the time. This made many folks nervous, especially the older generations, who could still remember World War II. Whereas a few months earlier Pavel Kazakov had been reviled and pursued throughout Europe—he was still under indictment for narcotics trafficking and other violent crimes in twenty-three countries around the world— today he was being lauded as some sort of savior, a dashing entrepreneur rescuing the poorest nations in Europe from abject poverty. He was sponsoring drug-eradication programs in several dozen nations around the world—this from the man who had perfected the art of drug smuggling in Europe to a fine art, whom some had once accused of pumping heroin through his pipelines instead of oil.
But no one could doubt that their presence was benefiting everyone. The bottom line: everyone seemed to be getting rich from the oil. What was there not to like?
“A sort of eco-terrorist thing?” the skipper asked, immediately aware that it was his responsibility—not to mention in his, and his family’s, best interest—not to screw this up, He shook his head when the intel officer nodded. “Ni kruti mn'e yaytsa, ” he said with disgust.
“The tanker has an
alternate control center on the second floor of the superstructure,” the chief engineer’s mate said, producing a faxed sketch of the tanker. “If we shell the bridge, even destroy it, we can still control the ship from there. The terrorists are very likely up on the bridge—we’re bound to nail a few of them there.”
“All right,” the captain decided. “We close the distance until we can get within pinpoint firing range of the tanker, then shell the superstructure only, staying away from the alternate control center, the rudder, and the propulsion system. Weapons, what range would that be?”
“We should use the optronic sights and laser rangefinder,” he suggested. “In this weather, in these conditions, we should close to at least fifteen kilometers.”
“Very well,” Boriskov said. “Just before we start shelling the superstructure, we'll launch the air and surface assault craft. Coordinate your shelling with the assault.” The officers nodded their heads in agreement. “Loshka gavna v bochki m'oda. There's still a spoonful of shit in the honey barrel. What about the Sukhoi-24 and Tupolev-95 attacks? What hit them? Any ideas?”
“No idea, sir.” the TAO replied. “We're just now within radar range of the area where they were hit. We've been monitoring Turkey's air traffic control network, and there's no sign of any attack aircraft launching from there.”
“I don't think Turkey would be stupid enough to interfere with this incident,” the captain said. “It doesn't make sense— Turkey helping a bunch of idiotic terrorists trying to hijack an oil tanker. Where do they think they are going to go? We'll put a stop to this in no time.”
Codlea, Bulgaria
That same time
“Wake up!” Fursenko shouted wildly. “Wake up, damn you, or he'll kill us all!” He could smell alcohol, and beads of sweat popped on the back of his neck.
Ion Stoica's head felt as if it was going to explode, and his mouth and tongue felt as dry and as rough as sandpaper. He rolled wearily onto his side. “What in hell do you want, Fursenko?”
“One of Metyor’s oil tankers in the Black Sea is under attack,” Fursenko exclaimed. That got Stoica’s attention. “Someone has hijacked it! Comrade Kazakov wants you to launch immediately!”
Stoica struggled to his feel, put on his flight suit over a pair of lightweight cotton underwear, stumbled into his boots, and headed out of his room in a small building adjacent to the main hangar. That little wooden building had been his home now for over eight months. Up until three months before, he had had to share it with Gennadi Yegorov, his weapons officer aboard the Metyor Mt-179 stealth fighter, but he’d finally convinced him to get his own place. Yegorov had made up a place over the main hangar—the noise from the aircraft maintenance crews below didn't bother him.
They made their way across the dark dirt streets toward the security checkpoint to the main hangar where the Mt-179 Tyenee had been stored. Except for just a few test flights, they hadn’t flown the bird too often. NATO and Romanian air patrols had come fairly close to the base, but the Mt-179 had been able to dispatch them quickly and easily.
“You’ve been drinking!” Fursenko said, horrified, as they passed through the outer security post.
“Screw you. Doctor,” Stoica said. “I've been holed up in this place for over half a year with no leave and no time off. The food is lousy and I haven't seen a woman worth fucking in three months. I bought some homemade wine from one of the locals, and if I'd had a chance to drink some then, I probably would’ve fucked the old hag. Now shut up. You’re making my head hurt.”
Yegorov was already inside, drawing on a chart of the Black Sea and northern Turkey. The guy was unreal, Stoica thought— noise, loneliness, quiet, and deprivation didn't bother Yegorov one bit. He didn’t smoke, drink, play cards, or party like the others assigned here. He had a lot of male friends in the maintenance department—maybe Gennadi was curing his loneliness with some late-night visits to the maintenance group’s barracks. Maybe that’s why he’d agreed to relocate to over the maintenance hangar.
“Ion’s here, sir,” Yegorov said to a speakerphone.
“Nice of you to join us, Stoica,” the sneering voice of Pavel Kazakov came over the speaker.
“Sorry, sir. I came as soon as I heard.” He stopped himself from making an obscene gesture to the speakerphone, motioned to a maintenance officer for coffee, and pulled out a cigarette from a flight suit pocket. “Some retards are attacking one of your tankers?”
“A group of terrorists—the exact number is unknown, but around eight to twelve—fast-roped onto the tanker Ustinov a couple hours ago.” Yegorov summarized. “They have shoulder-fired antiaircraft missiles and have shot down a Navy helicopter. The tanker is heading south into Turkish waters, destination unknown.”
Stoica shook his head, totally confused. He took a big sip of coffee. “So what are we supposed to do?”
“Two Russian maritime patrol aircraft, a Sukhoi-24 and Tupolev-95, were attacked by an undetected aircraft en route to the tanker,” Yegorov explained. “Mr. Kazakov believes someone—NATO, the Americans, or perhaps the Turks—have sent stealth aircraft into the area to keep the Russian aircraft away. He wants us to investigate. Tonight”
“Yes. sir.” Stoica said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “If someone’s up there, we’ll nail his ass to the wall.” He turned to the maintenance officer. “How long before we are ready to fly?”
“About twenty minutes, sir,” the officer said. Stoica nodded, inwardly groaning. It was going to take him a lot longer than that to sober up. Maybe coffee and some one hundred-percent oxygen would help.
“There is a Russian destroyer pursuing the tanker, getting ready to land some naval infantry on the tanker to recapture it,” Kazakov said. “If there’s another aircraft out there, I want you to get it. Don't let anyone get a shot off at either the tanker or the destroyer I want that tanker recovered intact and the oil safe. Do you understand?” The line went dead before anyone could respond.
Stoica finished the coffee with a gulp. “Good luck to you. too, sir,” he muttered sarcastically.
Aboard the Russian Federation Navy destroyer Besstrashny
A short time later
With the captain back on the bridge monitoring the attack, their plan got under way. The tactical action officer (TAO) fed in information from his India-band surface-search radar when it came within range, followed by more precise targeting information from its optronic telescopic night sight and laser rangefinder. The tanker was on a constant heading and speed, so targeting was easy. “Bridge, combat,” the TAO radioed, “we’ve got a clear sight of the target. Captain.”
The captain got up, went to the aft part of the bridge, and checked the repeaters of the targeting screens from the Combat Information Center. The sights were clearly locked on the upper portion of the large white superstructure. “Very well. Range?”
“Twenty-one kilometers, sir.”
“Any change in target heading or speed?”
“No, sir.”
“Any other aircraft or vessels nearby?”
“No vessels within ten kilometers of the tanker, sir. All of the vessels nearby have been accounted for. No threat to us.”
“Very well. Launch the surface and air attack teams.” A small team of six Russian Federation Naval Infantry commandos were launched aboard the Besstrashny's Ka-27 helicopter and sent to try to secretly board the tanker; at the same time, they loaded a launch w ith two dozen Naval Infantry commandos to attempt a raid from the sea.
When fifteen kilometers out. the stem section of the tanker was in clear sight on the optronic monitors. “Still no change in target heading or speed,” the TAO reported. “It looks like it’s simply going to ground itself on the northern Turkish coast, about halfway between the Turkish naval base at Eregli and the coastal resort city of Zonguldak.”
“Any oil facilities there?” the skipper asked his intelligence officer. “Any way the Turks can off-load the oil?”
“You mean, steal it?” the intel offic
er asked incredulously.
“Just answer the damned question.”
“Zonguldak is a coastal residential, resort, and university town,” the intel officer said. “Large desalinization plant, large nuclear-power-generating facility there, but no oil refineries or oil off-loading or transshipment facilities.”
“A nuclear power plant, eh?” the captain mused. “Is it on the coast?”
“It’s about twenty kilometers south of the projected impact area and about two kilometers inland, closer to the naval base.”
The captain was still considering the eco-terrorist angle, but it was starting to distract him. and he didn’t need that right now. "Comm, Bridge, send one last message to fleet headquarters, requesting permission to begin our operation.”
A few moments later: “Bridge, Comm, message from Fleet, operation approved, commence when ready.”
"Very well.” He picked up the ship’s intercom. “All hands, this is the captain. We will commence attack operations immediately.” To the officer of the deck, he ordered, “Sound general quarters.” The alarms and announcements began, and the captain was handed his helmet, headphones, and life jacket. “Release battenes. Commence . ..”
“Bridge, Combat, high-speed air bandit, bearing zero-five-zero, range three-two kilometers, low, heading southwest at nine two-zero kilometers per hour!”
“Byt v glubokay zhopi, there's our mystery attacker,” the captain swore,
“Recommend heading two-three-zero, flank speed, and canceling the attack on the tanker, sir,” the executive officer said.
“My orders are to stop those terrorists from taking that tanker into Turkish waters,” the captain said. “Maintain course and speed, stand by to open fire.”
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