It was like being in a photograph. Bolan wondered what had Kissinger spooked. The voices were buzzing in his earpiece.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said the voice of Aaron Kurtzman.
“A turbidity sensor measures the level of sediment suspended in a water sample,” Kissinger said.
“Yeah, I think saw an ad for a new dishwasher that does that to figure out how long to keep washing the dishes. I’m not seeing the connection,” Kurtzman said.
Bolan saw it. “I’m kneeling in silt, Bear,” he reported. “The water is less than six feet deep. I take one step, and I’m going to raise a cloud of muck and that sensor can’t possibly miss it.”
“You’ve got to hand it to the Iraqis,” Price observed after a second of silence. “They created a secure perimeter with old plumbing and cheap appliance parts.”
“Let’s save the accolades,” Bolan answered. “I need to get past these things.”
“We can send the submersible ahead. Maybe it’ll find a gap.”
“No, it won’t—not one I can get to without setting this one off,” Bolan said.
“The submersible could disable the sensor,” Kurtzman suggested.
“That might be enough in itself to raise an alarm,” Bolan said. “Besides, if I swim or walk in the silt clouds won’t settle—they’ll get carried in the current to the next sensor too. I need to get in without touching the ground. Can the submersible tow me?”
There was silence. For a moment Bolan wondered if he had lost his com link. “Are you kidding, Striker?” Kissinger asked finally.
“It’s little but it maneuvers pretty well. All I need is for a tow of maybe thirty, forty feet. I’ll inflate my vests to neutral buoyancy.”
“I guess it could be done. The AUV’s got some kick,” Kurtzman said. “We might burn out the motors halfway there.”
“Let’s give it a try,” Bolan said. “Bear, bring it around.”
“You got it,” Kurtzman replied, but the misgiving was there in his voice. Bolan carefully actuated the manual discharge on the oxygen tank’s life vest valve, bleeding air into the inflatable compartments until they were tugging at his body weight. He felt the minutes wasting away as he achieved buoyancy and lifted himself from the muck with agonizing slowness. Even these gradual movements sent billows of silt into the blackness. Bolan increased the feeble glow of his dive light just enough to watch the silt dissipate in the current, curling around the post with the improvised sensor.
Bolan was as limp as a corpse, letting his vest lift him until he floated so close to the surface he could have raised his arm and touched atmosphere.
On his instructions Kurtzman ordered the submersible to extend its grappling claws and swing around beneath him. Bolan unfastened one of the rebreather pack straps and placed it between the pinchers, which closed on it. Then the submersible powered up.
For a moment Bolan hung in the water motionless, despite the tugging on his pack, then felt himself begin to move.
He felt like a balloon cartoon character getting towed by a convertible in a Thanksgiving parade, but so what. It was working.
He floated beyond the sensor.
The submersible changed its heading and another improvised dirty water watcher was bypassed.
Bolan’s dive light gave him almost zero visibility, and he was alarmed when he saw the bottom coming at him. “Get me closer to the surface, Bear,” he said.
The submersible’s quick maneuverability was long gone with its oversize tow, and Bolan straightened himself as the murky surface of the muddy Tigris bottom rose up, threatening to crash into him. Then he saw another sensor, not five feet away, lingering at the very edge of his shadowy visibility.
The water depth was less than three feet. If he even brushed the mud, there would be a silt cloud that would undoubtedly envelop the sensor.
It seemed like the riverbed was no more than an inch away when Bolan felt the pull of the little submersible begin to lift him. It wouldn’t be enough. The incline of the riverbed was too steep and coming too fast….
Then the riverbed fell away from under him so steeply it was like drifting over the side of a cliff.
“Stop, Bear. I’m in the dredge channel.”
The tiny screws on the submersible halted and Bolan drifted to a stop within a few feet. The pinchers released his strap and the AUV zipped away into the blackness for a reconnoiter.
“Looks like the way is clear all the way to the hull,” Kurtzman reported back momentarily.
“But there could still be sensors all over that boat hull,” Price insisted.
“I’m aware of that. I’ll take it from here.”
Bolan went in for the probe.
OLLA MEHMOODA was nervous. Something was going down in the capital, and the rumors were confusing. From what he understood the damage was minimal compared to what his worst fears could conjure, which made the rumors stranger. The entire resistance network was in some sort of clandestine high-alert status.
So far things were quiet out here at the Big Boat. That’s what they called it, since the damn thing didn’t even have a name. The security detail was never supposed to even discuss their duties outside their own ranks.
Mehmooda didn’t know why they couldn’t talk about it, or why the Big Boat didn’t have a name, or even what the Big Boat was for. He was just supposed to guard it.
There had to be something valuable inside—he’d never been inside except into the few rooms for use by the guard detail. There had been numerous visits by the Ba’ath VIPs in the months he’d been here.
He wasn’t worried about the danger. He knew how extensively the place was guarded above and below water.
So what was there to be nervous about?
This job wouldn’t be nearly as tedious and nerve-racking if he didn’t have to stand here in the pitch-black all night every night. Even if they let him smoke a cigarette once in a while it would make this job bearable.
“Olla.” His name came through a crackle of static from the radio on his belt. He grabbed it.
“Yes?”
“Check the aft port side. We’ve got a couple of signals in the water.”
Not again. “Doing it now.”
The stupid hull sensors were always picking up readings, even though they all knew that the only thing that was going to get this close to the Big Boat was marine life.
He flashed on his light and shone it into the water. Something slender and white ducked beneath the surface.
“It is a fish,” he radioed.
“Both of them? We’ve got two signals.”
“I just see one,” Mehmooda replied irritably. “I think if one was a fish then the other one was a fish.”
“Keep an eye on it.”
“I will.”
Morons. Do they think an intruder, even if he could sneak this close to the boat, would somehow manage to bring in a fish to serve as a decoy?
Then he thought about it. He had seen the fish for just an eye blink, but it had looked very linear. It was just a little thing, no bigger than his forearm. And it had dived when he turned his light on.
It had to be a fish.
There was a little splash just a few feet below him. He leaned over and flipped on the light.
The little fish was looking at him with an electronic eye.
Then came the big fish. It shot out of the water, fixed Mehmooda with steely cold eyes and snatched him over the deck rail with a single powerful yank.
Then there was nothing but water and chaos. Mehmooda fought like a thrashing alley cat, but the water made his movements feeble, and the hands that were around his throat were too strong. They were iron clamps. They were inescapable. His flashlight was somehow still working and Olla Mehmooda waved it, hoping to see something, anything, that might be used to save him.
He saw the little fish, motionless in the water like no real fish ever was, watching him die with its one tiny electronic eye.
BOLAN LEFT TH
E DEAD GUARD and slithered on deck, making quick work of equipping himself from the waterproof pack.
The boat was living up to Hatim’s description. Although painted to look like a derelict, it was actually some sort of a high-end work boat. The rusty-looking deck plates were solid. The outer hull, he had noticed from below the waterline, was clean as if it had been scraped this week.
He found Guard Number Two at the front end of the vessel. Number Two wasn’t demonstrating the same restlessness as the man at the rear, just lazily pacing the foredeck and watching the skies.
Bolan rushed in. Number Two heard the padding footsteps when they were almost on him. The Executioner slammed the gun stock against his forehead and Guard Number Two slumped to the deck.
The radio on Number Two’s belt squawked, and a few seconds later squawked again. Bolan was moving. Leisure time was over.
A light came on in one of the deckhouses, showing Bolan a pair of armed guards coming out of the interior doorway. He reached the door as they opened it, and swept them down with a burst of 5.56 mm tumblers. They never knew what hit them.
He leaped the bodies and went into the door, thundering down the brief ramp into a security room. The guard saw Bolan and slammed his fist onto the glass covering of a red emergency button even as Bolan eviscerated him with autofire.
Too late. As the guard dropped to the deck, the security control board sprung to life with lights and alarm messages. Bolan ran into the adjoining corridor to face a pair of sleepy-looking guards emerging from their quarters. One of them was holstering a handgun. He turned the handgun on the warrior, but Bolan took the gunner down with a brief burst of fire, and his companion fell beside him. Bolan found that one of the 9 mm rounds had grazed the first gunner and plowed into the second below the ribs. The man’s eyes were rolling into the top of his head.
“How many on board?” Bolan demanded.
A long, final exhalation was the only answer he got.
Bolan raced through the boat, kicking in doors, arriving last at the engine room, and determining he was alone.
Back on the bridge he found the entire vessel blazing with light, automatically activated by the alarm. He turned off the lights except for the dim lights in the bridge and searched for weapon controls. There was a touch-pad screen for the remote operation of the 20 mm guns mounted fore and aft, but when he flipped them on he found the multilingual display demanding his password.
Bolan saw lights on the river. A pair of 20-foot fiberglass craft mounted with belt-fed machine guns raced toward him, criss-crossing each other. The radio began squawking on the bridge controls.
Bolan had more or less expected a reception such as this. He kept one eye on the approaching boats as he found the drive controls and started up the engine. No password lockout here. The power plant thrummed to life without hesitation, and the sound was like a steady earthquake. Bolan had not had time to check it out when he was hurrying through the engine room. Whatever drove this boat, it was big.
Bolan tried the rudder and throttle controls. Everything seemed to be in working order.
The machine-gun boats were coming to a halt and turning broadside to him, flashing their spotlights on the deckhouse. Bolan grimaced. They weren’t coming any closer, locked out by the ring of mines. They knew just where it was, and they kept their distance.
Then he saw the lights of an aircraft, a mile beyond the boats and coming fast over the river. How was he going to deal with it?
There was no time to dial up Kurtzman and get him to work hacking into the weapons system. Those 20 mm guns would take out the helicopter and would have enough range for the boats as well. But that would take way too long. So how—?
The Executioner grimaced at the idea that popped into his head, and with the quick flip of a bank of switches he activated the anchor winches.
The ship would be free-floating in seconds.
Bolan jumped out of the deckhouse and put a surprised expression on his face for the benefit of the boat gunners as he observed the helicopter. Someone shouted through a bullhorn from one of the boats but Bolan ignored it, thumbing a 40 mm round into the breech of the M-203 grenade launcher mounted under his M-16 A-2 assault rifle. As he squinted into the spotlights estimating his target distance, he heard the helicopter coming up fast behind them.
Bolan triggered the M-203 and watched the HE grenade zip away into the darkness. The round smacked the water and blew with a curiously subdued glimmer of light.
The HE burst was followed by a mine explosion, then another, then another, and the geysers of water burst into the night sky. The steady glare of the spotlights transformed into wild swinging disco lights as the boats rocked in the agitated water.
But Bolan’s eyes were on the aircraft, fascinated. The helicopter was deluged by a wall of water from beneath. The helicopter wobbled, the pilot frantically fighting for control.
Now the gunship was within the range of the M-203. Bolan triggered another grenade, and the 40 mm round cracked against the side of the aircraft, engulfed it in flame and dropped it like a rock into the Tigris River. Another quartet of mines detonated where it fell and chewed the flaming wreckage into scraps.
One of the machine-gun boats had been swamped and was sinking beneath the murky water. Two men were swimming for the second boat when Bolan began turning the Tigris into watery perdition. He sent a trio of HE rounds flying at the machine-gun boat in rapid succession, placing them carefully about ten feet apart and blowing the subsurface mines one on top of another.
Before the airborne cascade of water had fallen Bolan was back on the bridge, flipping on the hull lighting and discovering that the big boat had drifted dangerously sideways during its brief moments of release. Its aft end was seconds away from plowing into the rise in the river floor. He put power to the screws and the Tigris behind him became a muddy froth. The front end sped at the wall of rain still falling on the boiling water.
The huge Iraqi boat was gaining more speed than Bolan would have thought possible, and he didn’t have time to second-guess his steering as he maneuvered the boat through the new-made gap in the circle of mines. He was beyond it in seconds.
To his surprise, the second machine-gun boat was in front of him. Bolan twisted the wheel. The big boat responded immediately, aiming directly at the boat. There were just two men on board, and the driver brought his engines to full speed and steered for safety. The little boat maneuvered itself deftly out of Bolan’s path, only to find itself lifted out of the water by the heavy wake.
Bolan steered the boat through a wide, sweeping U-turn and found the second boat now belly up. Two figures were clinging to the floating wreck and shaking their fists at him.
They should have been saying thank you. They got off pretty easy.
Bolan brought the engines to top speed, finding himself careening over the black waters at 50 mph.
He’d be back in Baghdad in no time.
22
The old cameraman yawned. “Any day now.”
“You think this is really going to happen?” asked the reporter, a young Swede who was usually too dapper, too well-groomed for the old cameraman to take seriously.
“I’ve seen stranger stuff. And Gotts said it was a reliable source.”
The old cameraman knew more than he was telling. He and Gotts Sigus were old drinking buddies. He knew who this source was—it was the American woman who called herself Bee.
Bee had given the Scandinavian news agency some of its best tips. Whoever she was, she was involved with some heavy, heavy stuff, and when it suited her purposes she was not above making use of a little international publicity.
They got the call from Gotts at three in the morning on the encrypted global sat phone.
“He’s going to land it right outside your freaking hotel!” Gotts had almost shouted. The cameraman had not heard his old pal so excited since, well, the 1970s at least.
“The former president’s escape boat? I didn’t know he had an escape boat
.”
“Nobody did!” Gotts enthused. “Just think of what it means—the thing is a symbol. He and his sons were ready to run in the face of a revolt. It’s a great fucking story, and if this guy really does crash it right there in front of your fucking hotel, it’ll be fucking great! The Americans will eat this up!”
The cameraman tried to calm his old friend before he had a heart attack. “If it happens we’ll get it, Gotts, I swear.”
The cameraman got excited himself as he was searching for a shot. In the end he decided there was no better, safer view of the action than from his own hotel window—if this thing came down he could never publicly film it without having his equipment confiscated on the spot.
The reporter had his doubts from the start. Now, as the long, quiet minutes passed, and Baghdad slept uneventfully, the old cameraman was beginning to wonder, too.
Had Bee let them down?
Her tips were always good. Hell, some of them turned into magnificent scoops. Be a shame to ruin her perfect score.
He heard the hum, far off.
In any European or American city there would have been the lull of street noise to mask it, but in Baghdad, with its crumbling infrastructure, there was almost no nighttime traffic. The hum became a rumble.
“There it is.” The old cameraman grinned as he manipulated the display on the rear of the camera. The monitor showed him the Tigris River almost a mile away, a maximum-zoom shot he had framed and focused an hour ago. He began recording and gave the reporter the hand signal to keep his mouth shut.
The reporter came to look over his shoulder and they both saw the big boat speed into the frame.
And it just kept coming.
That’s no boat—it’s a fucking yacht, the cameraman thought, pulling back a little and moving the camera along to follow it. The camera’s servomotors were controlled by a CPU that could be taught a series of motions, and the cameraman had spent his idle time in the last few hours composing the perfect scan of the Tigris.
But the programmed scan’s speed wasn’t cutting it. The boat was going like a bat out of hell. The cameraman took manual control of the speed and backed up his zoom even further, keeping the boat in the frame and adding enough of the surrounding scenery to give the shot perspective.
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