Overkill
Page 21
“Thinking the same thing. In all that bad weather? Perfect night to do it if he did, wouldn’t it be? All he’d need was someone in a rowboat to row him out to the yacht under cover of darkness and the rain. No one would ever have seen him in this bloody deluge.”
Ten minutes later, Too Elusive was free of the constraints of the harbor and roaring past the breakwater at full throttle in pursuit of the fleeing Russians. Harry Brock was still at the bow station with an M14 heavy machine gun and wearing night-vision glasses. He’d told Hawke he’d seen no sentries aboard Tsar while she was anchored. But, now, who knew?
Below, lit by the glow of all the instruments at the nav station, Congreve was hunched forward, tracking the movements of Tsar on radar and sonar. “Target vessel coming to new course two-eight-five, bearing away to the northwest. Range fifteen miles and closing . . .”
“Where the hell’s he going, do you think, Constable?” Hawke asked, ducking his head down inside the companionway.
“Hard to say. If I had to fathom a guess right now? I’d say maybe Nice airport. Jet waiting on the tarmac, maybe? Could be headed to Monte Carlo, of course. Who knows?”
“How long till we intercept him?” Hawke said. “What’s your GPS telling you?”
“At our current speed, and if this brief respite in the weather holds, we should be within visual contact range in about six minutes,” Congreve said. “Just as she’s entering the harbor at Nice . . .”
“Hold on,” Hawke said, shoving the throttles forward. “I can’t wait that long . . . I want to board her out here in open water. Away from prying eyes on shore.”
“Understood,” Congreve said.
Too Elusive surged forward, throwing huge bow waves to either side and leaving a massive and roiling wake trailing behind her. It was still raining hard, but visibility was up considerably. Hawke peered through the curved windscreen, waiting for the big red boat to emerge from the mist.
“I’m beginning to believe Hugo,” Hawke said to Congreve. “There’s minimal crew aboard. With a full complement, Tsar would have picked us up on radar leaving the harbor mouth. But they’re not pinging us, are they?”
“Not yet.”
“Because if they think we’re a threat, they’ve got surface-to-surface missile defenses that we could never overcome. I’ve known Hugo a very long time. He was very close to Anastasia and Alexei. I’m not sure he’s lying about Tsar, but you’re right, he knows something else he’s not talking about.”
“I hope you’re right, Alex. I’d hate to go up against a boatload of heavy KGB security once we board . . .”
“Hello, boss,” Stokely said.
Having disappeared below twenty minutes earlier, he now appeared at the bottom of the steps. He was wearing his Navy SEAL frogman gear and looked like some incredibly fearsome alien being from beneath the sea.
“You ready to go, big man?” Hawke asked him.
“Born ready, boss man!”
“Good, it’s time.”
Their plan called for Hawke to put Stoke in the water within swimming distance of Tsar. Get aboard without being observed, get to the stern, and haul a grapnel line to Brock on the bow of Too Elusive approaching from the rear. The tricky part was that, initially, both boats would be moving when Stoke splashed down. In the same direction. Hawke would have to time Stoke’s insertion right down to the nanosecond! At the critical location just ahead of the oncoming Tsar.
Hawke knew that there was a wide-open submerged hatch in the starboard-side hull of the Russian yacht. Putin had installed a three-man sub, a bright yellow SM300/3, launched and recovered from the aquatics deck below the ship’s waterline. Stoke would swim up through the open hatch and enter the yacht unseen and undetected . . .
Or that was the plan, anyway.
Chapter Forty-Three
The wind was howling, the slanting rain was stinging, and the ride back at the stern was wild. Stoke, bouncing every which way but loose, was trying to stay seated on Too Elusive’s stern gunwale with his legs hanging down over the transom, his flippers resting on the swim platform. He was looking back over his shoulder at Hawke, waiting for his signal from the helm station.
Bucking-bronco hard to hold on to the damn boat, sure, but he’d secured a lifeline round his waist to one of the stern cleats.
Too Elusive was doing forty knots now, flying from wave top to wave top and moving over the water twice as fast as the Russian boat up ahead of him. Hawke’s next moves were critical. Hawke would keep Tsar on his portside but maneuver first to pull abreast of her. Then exceed her speed to get just far enough ahead of Tsar that when Stoke went into the water, he had just enough time to submerge directly in the path of the oncoming vessel and find that hatch as she passed. His mission: somehow get up inside the damn boat. And do it all unobserved and unchallenged.
Stoke’s next move, get Hawke and company aboard Tsar to conduct a thorough stem-to-stern search. And if they got really lucky, execute a hostage rescue.
Suddenly Hawke slowed the roaring speedboat, bleeding speed rapidly now as he judged the relative positions of the two vessels. Stoke, who had done Navy SEAL ops like this countless times, believed he had never done one quite as difficult as this one. Timing was absolutely critical to their success, both on Hawke’s part and his own . . . he saw Hawke raise his clenched right fist!
“GO!” he heard Hawke’s muffled cry over the roar of the huge engines. “GO!”
He pulled the tab on his cleated lifeline and hit the water perfectly. He grabbed a quick look at Tsar as the big red boat approached him bow on. Calculating the relative distance and speed, he picked his spot, dove deep, pumping his massively powerful legs. And swimming as hard as ever he had, he crossed the distance in half the time they’d planned on.
He’d gained about a twenty-second advantage.
He kicked rapidly to the surface and eyed the big yacht, ever closer now, bearing down on him at speed, her knife-like bow heaving massive waves of water to port and starboard. He began his mental countdown and submerged deep enough and soon enough to let the starboard hull pass just a foot or two above him and . . . here she comes . . . he could see the open hatch in the hull . . . wait for it . . . and . . . NOW!
The hatch was immediately above him when he kicked hard. The big man shot upward into the opening, both hands grabbing blindly for a hold on anything locked down. His left hand had gotten lucky, grasped the bottom rung of a stainless-steel ladder descending from the platform of the aquatics deck.
Finding his footing on the rung and scrambling up the ladder onto the deck, working in near-total darkness and silence, he paused to ensure he was alone.
He was. He switched on the LED lantern atop his diving helmet and the sub pen’s space was sufficiently illuminated. No staircases that he could see, no more ladders leading upward to the higher decks. Then he saw in the pure white beam of light exactly what he’d been hoping for.
On a far bulkhead was the polished steel door of the small elevator Alex Hawke had told him about.
Bingo.
He removed his flippers and silently padded across the deck to the elevator, pushing the higher button in the steel bulkhead. A second later, the door slid open and he entered, scanning the buttons quickly and determining which one was most likely to be the main deck.
The lift slowed, then stopped moving, and the door slid open silently. Stokely Jones Jr. stepped out onto the rain-swept decks of the yacht’s massive stern. Empty. Not a soul in sight. The rain had eased only slightly and visibility was still way down when he made it all the way aft to the stern rail.
He’d hoped to see Hawke’s bow searchlight beam out there, see Too Elusive bobbing in the misty rain, but there was nothing visible, at least not yet . . .
He heard a noise behind him and whirled . . .
He had his 9mm side arm and an HK50 machine gun at the ready.
But there was nothing there; nobody to shoot. A rumble of distant thunder maybe, Stoke told himself.
When they’d gotten themselves within Stoke’s reach at the stern rail, the big man would then extend his hand and haul them aboard one by one. Sharkey’s job, then, was to helm the boat, to keep the speedboat on an even keel as she was towed through the water by Tsar.
Getting around on the rain-slick deck wasn’t easy. The coiled hundred feet of rubber-sheathed twisted wire cable that hung from his utility belt made moving about difficult. But he made the tow line secure to the stern cleats and was able to survey his situation. Suddenly, from out of the mist, he heard the low rumble of the speedboat. Hawke, at idle speed, was closing the distance between the two boats. Fifty feet . . . forty . . . thirty! Stoke gave Brock an all clear with his right hand. He saw Hawke at the helm flash him a V for Victory sign.
Game on, Stoke thought, rock steady!
Implausibly, the captain had posted no guards or aft sentries to ward off unwanted intruders such as he himself. He stared aft into the misty rain, waiting to see the spotlight on Too Elusive’s bow as Hawke powered through the roiling wake and got within spitting distance of Tsar’s stern.
Minutes later he saw Hawke’s lone bow spotlight, haloed, bobbing and weaving through the rain and sea and darkness. Hawke slowly maneuvered closer and closer. Stoke could now see Brock on the bow, ready to take the line Stoke would heave in his direction, but he would only get one chance . . .
Hawke and Congreve were at the helm station, Brock on the bow to receive the line. Sharkey, the veteran charter yacht skipper who would remain aboard Too Elusive to captain the speedboat, was behind them, watching Hawke’s every move to get them in the correct position to board the Russian boat. Given the rough seas, strong winds, and blanketing rain, it was no easy task. But on they came . . . maybe twenty feet away now . . .
Fifteen feet . . . ten. . . five! Stoke gave Brock and Hawke an all clear signal with his right hand. No hostiles. He saw Hawke at the helm flash him a V for Victory sign.
Brock suddenly shouted and raised his right fist, the signal that he was in proper position to receive the line. One that would join the two boats. Stoke paused a beat, then heaved the heavy line out over the remaining divide, being as precise as he could in so much wind.
It would be a close thing, as a huge wave came from out of nowhere and smacked the bow of Too Elusive ten degrees to starboard . . . He could see Hawke spinning the wheel, playing the throttles back and forth like a nautical musician, desperately hoping to get back to the right spot before Stoke’s line sank uselessly into the drink. A little less port throttle now . . . a quick burst of startboard . . . full stop!
The bulk of the coiled cable landed on the bow!
At least it was inside the stanchions. It ended up about a yard from Harry’s feet. Brock quickly seized it, found the rubber-coated grapnel hook and locked it to the foremost cleat on the bow. Done and done.
Now that Too Elusive was secure to the Russian boat, Hawke left Sharkey at the wheel, stepped outside the cockpit, and carefully made his way forward. He was immediately followed by Congreve.
Up on Tsar’s stern, Stoke scanned the darkened decks above and below him for any sign of opposition. Nothing—not yet, anyway.
He stepped back to the rail and gave the signal that it was safe for them to use the secured line to make their way to the platform and then up the slanted transom and onto the main deck of the enemy vessel.
Like pirates of yore, they had boarded an enemy ship to see what treasures they could find. The missing president of Russia? Or even better, Hawke’s kidnapped son, Alexei.
It was quiet, Stoke thought, with a grim smile on his lips, despite the storm raging outside on the decks.
Too quiet, as they used to say in the old movies.
Way too quiet.
The calm before the real storm that was brewing out there.
Chapter Forty-Four
At sea
Hawke was the last man aboard.
The small hostage rescue team huddled together under a canvas deck overhang, trying to be heard over the deafening patter of hard rainfall, trying to keep out of the driving rain as long as they could.
“Good work, Stoke,” Hawke said. “What have you got for us? No hostiles? How did you get up here from the sub pen?”
“That elevator right over there.”
“No guards, nothing?”
“No. It’s like she’s dead in the water, boss! A ghost ship! No sentries, no lights on, no nothing, but she’s steaming ahead at twenty knots. So we know we got folks up on the bridge, at any rate, driving the boat. Skipper and a mate, minimum. Posted sentries? Ordinary seamen? No evidence so far, but I’ve not been forward.”
“Good. But we assume nothing. We begin the search right here. Mr. Brock?”
“Aye, sir!”
“Go below. Search the stern, all decks, all compartments. You see anything interesting, get on your radio, let us know. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Chief Inspector Congreve?”
“Yes?”
“You’re amidships. Top to bottom. Treat it like the crime scene it may well turn out to be, Chief Inspector.”
“Aye-aye, skipper. I’m on it.”
“Good. Stokely, you and I will go forward. Our ultimate objective is to breach the bridge and seize command of the vessel. But we’ll search the bow as well, if need be. Come forward to us as soon as you hear me say we’re taking the bridge. But also should you find something or as soon as you’ve completed your search. Ready? Let’s go!”
Brock, cradling his assault rifle, immediately entered the elevator below to the stern. Ambrose mounted a ladder leading up to the deck above. Hawke and Stoke affixed silencers to their HK5 machine guns and started moving cautiously forward along the portside, headed toward the bow.
Minutes later, they stepped out into the open and onto the rain-swept bow. Deserted, like the rest of the boat. Still they lingered in the shadows below the bridge deck, thinking their luck so far might not hold.
Speaking softly into his lip mike, Hawke said, “Stoke, listen up. You see that large superstructure just forward of the primary anchor windlass? That’s a companionway leading below to the crew quarters at the bow. We’ll search compartments there, stay belowdecks and make our way amidships to Putin’s private elevator. Taken it with him many times. His shortcut up to the bridge in an emergency.”
Stoke nodded his understanding.
Hawke continued, “It’s about fifty feet across the deck, out in the open. We have to figure if there’s any security at all, it’s up there on the bridge. Armed sentries out on the exposed wings to either side. So stay low, keep moving, stay in the shadows and move as fast as you can. I’ll go first and give you covering fire. Give me sixty seconds and then move out.”
“Aye aye, bossman.”
“Good luck, buddy,” Hawke said, and sprinted across the deck in the direction of the huge anchors mounted to port and starboard on the foredeck.
The loud chatter of a machine-gun burst instantly filled the air. Rounds were striking the steel deck all around Hawke’s feet, ricocheting every which way. He looked back and saw the source. Two armed guards. Up there on the bridge wings, one to either side of the bridge itself. He needed cover now!
Another staccato lightning burst nearly caught him, but he was in midair diving behind one of the two ship’s anchors. The decks were oily slick up here, and his forward momentum kept him sliding when he hit the deck on the fly. He instantly slid right under the anchor, out into the open from behind the cover the anchor had provided!
Somehow he was on his feet again, firing up at wher
e he had last seen a muzzle flash. At that moment, the bow turned to daylight, illuminated, bathed in pure white light. Angry bees of lead were swirling around him again and he ducked behind the other anchor.
What to do? “Stoke, that was close. Two tangos up there on the wings, one on either side of the bridge. Guy on your side is standing directly above you. You’ve got frags, right?”
“Brock has frags. I’ve got smokes and flash bangs.”
“Perfect. Pull the pin on the flash bang, step out from under cover, heave the grenade straight up, arcing back. A three-count after you pull the pin should do the trick. On my signal . . . he’s moving around . . . Go!”
The starboard guard drew back from the rail upon seeing the grenade suddenly appear before his eyes. He tried to react, but the thing exploded right in his face. He dropped out of sight . . . And Stoke retreated back under cover.
“Good work!” Hawke said. “I’m going to lay down suppression fire for you. Keep the head down on the bad guy to port . . . come to me when you’re ready . . . and . . . go!”
Hawke stood up and started spraying lead at the portside bridge wing. He had his weapon on full auto and the hellish hail of lead in the air was relentless. He saw Stoke, bobbing and weaving and diving as he neared the anchor.
“Thanks,” Stoke said.
“Don’t mention it. Now, you return the favor as I get that companionway hatch door open . . . Say when.”
“When!”
Stoke stood up with the big M14 and unleashed loud and unholy hell on the Russian guard trapped out in the open. A second later, Hawke had covered the distance to his target. The door was locked. Shit. He attached one of his trademarked Semtex specials to the lock, got down on the deck, and triggered the explosive. It took the whole door off.
“Got a tango down over there,” Stoke said. “He popped up for a lookie-loo and got a head shot for his efforts.”