Acts of Vengeance

by Robert Gandt

  Still searching.

  Manilov had just returned to his command desk in the control room when they came to him. A dozen of them, mostly warrants, stood in a cluster behind Pietr Ilychin, the executive officer. Two lieutenants—Boris Antonin, the navigation officer, and Dimitri Popov, the engineering officer—were in the group. Each wore a sullen look.

  “Captain,” said Ilychin, clearing his throat, “the crew has taken a vote.”

  “A vote? About what?”

  “About whether to continue this patrol.”

  Manilov gave him a piercing look, causing Ilychin to avert his eyes. The time had finally come, he thought. Ilychin has contaminated the rest of the crew. Now I must deal with it.

  “I was not aware that the Russian Navy was a democracy. I am the captain, and I have the only vote.”

  “This is no longer the Russian Navy,” said Ilychin. “We are private citizens. We have a right to decide our own fate.”

  “You are officers and crew of the Ilia Mourmetz, and I am your commanding officer. Until this boat docks in port, you will continue with your duties. I expect you to carry out my orders without question.”

  At this a murmur rose from the assembled crewmen. Ilychin took this as a sign of support, and a smile passed over his narrow face. “The men of the crew no longer recognize you as their commanding officer.”

  “And who do they recognize?” Manilov said, knowing the answer.

  “They have elected me as the new captain.”

  “Did all the crew vote for this change?”

  Ilychin hesitated. “A majority.”

  “And what do you propose to do as the captain of the Ilia Mourmetz?” Manilov’s eyes bored into Ilychin.

  “That depends,” he said uncertainly.

  “On what, Mister Ilychin?”

  “On whether we can escape this place. It is still possible to deliver the submarine to Iran. We can sail to the base at Bandar Abbas.”

  “That’s brilliant, Ilychin. The Iranians will be most happy to receive the boat. Then they will arrest you and turn you over to Russia, who will line you up and execute each of you as a traitor.”

  Ilychin blinked, again uncertain. “We can surrender the vessel to the Americans. They will give us asylum.”

  At this Manilov felt a surge of anger sweep over him. Surrender to the Americans! He could still see the great mass of the Reagan floating like an apparition past the lens of his periscope. He had not waited this long to abandon the single defining mission of his life. It was unthinkable that he should become a vassal of the Americans. That was not his destiny. Fate had sent him here to sink the devil ship.

  And so, by God, he would.

  Manilov shifted his eyes from Ilychin to the others. They, too, looked frightened, uncertain. They were young men, most of them from the desolate provinces of Russia. They had families and dreams and hopes for the future. What they desperately needed now was leadership. It was his duty to provide it.

  He still sat at his desk. During the exchange with Ilychin, Manilov had slid his right hand into the pocket of his uniform tunic. Now he drew it out. It was wrapped around the grip of his Simonov semi-automatic pistol.

  He rose to his feet and aimed the pistol at the head of Pietr Ilychin. “You cowardly son of a bitch!”

  Ilychin saw that he meant it. His eyes filled with terror. “Captain—”

  The 7.62 mm round caught him in the temple. Ilychin’s head snapped back, and he toppled into the cluster of men behind him.

  For several seconds the gunshot echoed in the confined spaces of the submarine.

  “Who’s next?” Manilov roared. He waved the pistol at the pack of frightened men. “Who wants to take command of this vessel from me?”

  They stared back at him. No one answered.

  Manilov assumed that some must have come to the meeting with weapons of their own. The clip of his Simonov held eight more rounds. He would use them all if necessary.

  “Who else wants to surrender this boat to the Americans?”

  Still no answer.

  “Listen to me,” said Manilov. “The Ilia Mourmetz will carry out the mission it has been assigned. You are still Russians, and you understand the meaning of honor and dignity. I ask you to remain steadfast in your duty. Serve with me and I promise you this one thing—we will cover ourselves with glory.”

  They had formed themselves in a semi-circle around the sprawling body of Ilychin. Blood oozed from the purplish wound in the officer’s temple. His eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the overhead.

  “You two,” Manilov said, pointing to the two men nearest the body. “Place him in a plastic bag and store him in the torpedo room. When we have completed our business here and have again reached the open sea, we will give Pietr Ilychin a proper service and a burial at sea.”

  “Aye.” The two warrants hauled Ilychin’s corpse toward the passageway. “Lieutenant Popov,” Manilov said to the engineering officer, whose eyes were fixed on the body being carried away. The officer looked up with alarm. “You will assume the duties of executive officer. Take charge of Ilychin’s console and keep me informed about any changes in the status of our powerplants and weapons systems.”

  Popov nodded his head cautiously. “Aye, Captain.”

  Manilov glowered at the remaining crewmen, his eyes moving from one to the next. None would return his stare. They stood in an awkward cluster, waiting for an order.

  Manilov gave it to them. “Back to your stations. We will be moving into position to attack the enemy. I need the faithful service of every one of you. Do not disappoint me.”

  He stuffed the Simonov pistol back into his pocket and turned from them.

  Back at his command desk, he watched the crewmen shuffle away to their respective work posts. The crisis had passed, but only for a while. He could not keep their fealty if they remained for long in the midst of an enemy armada.

  As he reflected on what happened, he had to admit that Ilychin was right about one thing. This was not the Russian Navy. Not any longer. They had no allegiance to any country, not Russia, certainly not to Yemen or Al-Fasr. They were free agents, without rules or command oversight.

  What did that make them? Mercenaries? Pirates?

  For a professional naval officer like Yevgeny Manilov, it was a discomforting thought. He decided not to think about it.

  <>

  In the darkness Maxwell could hear the sounds of automatic fire around the marines’ position.

  “Boomer, this is Runner One-one,” he said quietly in his PRC-112. “Do you read, Boomer?”

  Several seconds elapsed, then the voice of Gus Gritti crackled over the radio. “Nice to hear you’re among the living, Runner. What’s your status?”

  “Operational. I’ve got company.”

  “Yankee Two? Have you joined with her?”

  “Affirmative,” said Maxwell. He decided not to pass the message that they had captured one of Al-Fasr’s pilot. Not over the SAR channel.

  “What’s your position, Runner? Are you close to us?”

  “Negative. No position reports in the open, Boomer. Be aware that this channel has been compromised.”

  “Okay, we sort of suspected that. Are you able to join our party?”

  “Not in the darkness. Too many obstacles. What do you suggest?”

  “Stay put. War Lord says they’re negotiating something. They’re gonna pick us up when the deal is made. In the meantime, keep your heads down and wait for the cavalry. When you see ‘em, mark your position with smoke.”

  “Copy that. We’re shutting down to save juice.”

  “Good luck, Runner.”

  <>

  The prisoner regarded them with a sullen stare. His face was swollen on the right side, and a residue of blood stained the corner of his mouth.

  “I think you broke his jaw,” said B.J.

  “That was an accident. I was aiming for his nose.”

  Their eyes had adjusted to the darkness. The s
ounds of gunfire over the hill were less frequent now. They huddled in the shelter of a row of thorny trees.

  Maxwell knelt before the German, who sat cross-legged at the base of a tree. His wrists were bound behind him. Rittmann’s eyes looked like opaque beads in the darkness.

  “The war’s over for you,” said Maxwell. “Your only chance to save your life is to cooperate.”

  “I am a prisoner of war. I have nothing to say to you.”

  “We’ve already been through that. You are a mercenary. And a terrorist. You have no rights.”

  “I am protected by the Geneva Convention.”

  For a moment Maxwell studied his own bandaged arm, then he looked at Rittmann again. “I don’t recall you worrying about the Geneva convention a couple of hours ago.”

  Rittmann gave him a sullen stare.

  “Maybe you wouldn’t mind telling us how Al-Fasr knew when the air strike was coming. What is his source of information?”

  “I have nothing to tell you.”

  “You don’t owe any loyalty to Al-Fasr. He left you for dead out here.”

  Rittmann didn’t respond.

  “He used you, then dumped you, right?”

  No response.

  Maxwell gave it a minute, then sighed, “You must understand, Herr Rittmann, this is a very bad situation for us. We have to keep moving, keep running from the Sherji. We can’t do that and drag a prisoner with us. Especially a prisoner who has no value.” He looked at B.J. “Isn’t that correct, Lieutenant?”

  She nodded, looking worried.

  Maxwell pulled out his .45 pistol. He could see by Rittmann’s eyes that he had his full attention.

  “No hard feelings, chum. You, of all people, should understand how it is.” He took a step toward him. “I’ll try to make it painless.”

  “You won’t kill a prisoner,” Rittmann blurted. “Americans are not permitted to do that.”

  “Oh, sure they are. It’s allowed under special circumstances, when our own lives are at stake.”

  Rittmann tried to scuttle away. Maxwell grabbed him by the collar of his flight suit and yanked him to his knees. He jammed the muzzle of the pistol against Rittmann’s temple.

  B.J. was making a great show of clearing her throat. “Excuse me, sir. Could we have a private discussion?”

  Maxwell stepped away from the prisoner. She leaned close to his ear and whispered, “Please tell me you’re not going to do something crazy.”

  “How do you define crazy?”

  “Killing this guy.”

  “The thought crossed my mind.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “You wouldn’t do that.” Then she saw his face. “Would you?”

  Maxwell nodded toward the bound German. “Rittmann here is exercising his right to remain silent. We can’t wait for the Sherji to come and pick us up, can we?”

  B.J. stared, speechless.

  With his thumb, he released the safety on left side of the pistol. It made an audible click.

  “This is barbaric!” yelled Rittmann.

  “Exactly my thoughts half an hour ago.”

  Holding the .45 with both hands, Maxwell aimed at the German’s forehead.

  “No!—”

  “—No!”

  The two voices—Rittmann’s and B.J.’s—were simultaneous.

  “Al-Fasr has intelligence sources,” Rittmann blurted.

  Maxwell kept the .45 trained on his forehead. “Tell me something I haven’t already figured out. Who? Where?” He let Rittmann continue looking into the muzzle of the Colt.

  “On your ship, the Reagan. I don’t know the name—Al-Fasr has never said. Someone with access to operational secrets.”

  “How is the information passed?”

  “The informer transmits the data by satellite, in some kind of encrypted form. In his underground base here in Yemen, Al-Fasr has very sophisticated communications equipment. He even knows the overflight schedules of your surveillance satellites.”

  Maxwell kept his expression blank. “Weapons,” he said. “What sort of equipment does Al-Fasr have? How many MiGs?”

  “He had six. I don’t know how many are left.”

  “Where is your base? Where did you take off from?”

  Rittmann kept his eyes focused on the pistol. “Eritrea. Across the Red Sea.”

  Maxwell watched his eyes. He knew Rittmann was lying. The MiGs couldn’t have come across the Red Sea without being detected. He would revisit that subject in a minute.

  “What else? Armor? Air defense?”

  Rittmann paused, then his eyes focused again on the pistol. “Personnel carriers, I don’t know how many. Ten, fifteen. Six helicopters, Dauphins. He has a supply of SA-16 anti-aircraft missiles.”

  Maxwell nodded. So it had been a shoulder-launched SA-16 heat-seeker that brought down his Hornet and, probably, one of the Marine Cobras. The SA-16 was a deadly weapon at short range against low-flyers. Another item they needed to know on the Reagan.

  Maxwell looked at B.J., whose face was slowly regaining its color. “We have to get this guy back to the ship for interrogation.”

  At this, Rittmann became agitated. “Ship? What ship?”

  “The aircraft carrier.”

  “No! Not the Reagan.”

  The urgency in the German’s voice surprised Maxwell. “It’s not as if you have a choice in the matter.”

  “The Reagan is. . . is not safe.”

  “Not safe? Explain, please.”

  “Al-Fasr—” He caught himself.

  Maxwell tried not to sound too interested. “The Reagan is a hundred-thousand-ton warship. Nothing can happen to it.”

  Rittmann shook his head. “Something will happen.”

  Maxwell and B.J. exchanged glances.

  “Keep talking,” Maxwell said. “What will happen?”

  “I don’t know. Only that Al-Fasr hates the Americans, their navy, their ships. This little war—it is all a charade. So he can spring a trap.”

  “What kind of trap? What’s it got to do with the Reagan?”

  “He has bragged about how he would sink the Americans’ most powerful ship.”

  “And how did he say he would sink it?”

  “He didn’t explain, only that he had a way.” With that, Rittmann seemed to realize that he had said more than he intended. He lapsed into another sulking silence.

  Maxwell wondered how much the German was holding back. He considered threatening him with the pistol again. Or even the long-bladed knife. Perhaps he needed another near-death experience.

  He pulled the knife out of his pocket and removed it from the scabbard. He looked at it for a moment, then put it down.

  No more rough stuff, he decided. It was best that they deliver this creep to the intel debriefers. Let the professionals evaluate the information he was giving them.

  B.J. said in a low voice, “Should we pass this information on the radio? They need to know that we have a prisoner.”

  He shook his head. “Al-Fasr monitors everything we transmit. If he learns we have Rittmann, he’ll start a massive search for us.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Wait for the helos to pluck us out of here in the morning. Rittmann too.”

  In the darkness, the German seemed to be in a trance. He leaned against the tree with his chin on his chest.

  “What about him?” she asked. “We can’t keep him tied up like that all night.”

  Maxwell considered for a moment. “We’ll give him a chance to eat and relieve himself.” Maxwell lifted the .45. “Go ahead and untie his wrists.”

  B.J. nodded and went to the prisoner. She knelt beside him and untied the parachute cord that fastened his wrists.

  It happened so quickly that Maxwell couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Rittmann was on his feet. Holding B.J. from behind, he had an arm clamped around her neck,

  Maxwell saw a flash of silver. Glinting in the darkness was the long slender blade of the fighting knife.

>   The damned knife! Thoughtlessly, he had put it down, forgotten it. Somehow Rittmann had managed to snag it and cut himself loose.

  He was holding the blade against B.J. Johnson’s throat.

  For several seconds no one spoke. Maxwell stood with the Colt in his hand, feeling powerless, furious with himself. Rittmann studied him. He kept the knife poised beneath B.J.’s chin.

  “Our positions reverse again,” said Rittmann. “Stay where you are and drop the pistol.”

  “It’s a stand off,” said Maxwell. He gestured with the .45. “If you do any harm to her, I’ll empty this pistol into you.”

  Rittmann stared back at him, desperation showing in his eyes. “Would you like to see her throat cut?”

  “Would you like to die from seven gunshot wounds?”

  Rittmann tightened his grip around B.J.’s neck. “You won’t shoot while I have this knife.”

  “Release her. You don’t have any options. You’ll be treated decently by the U. S. Navy.”

  “You are a liar. I will be a prisoner.”

  “You don’t have to be a prisoner. You can be a defector.”

  “I will never defect to the Americans.”

  “If Al-Fasr finds you, he’ll dismember you and feed you to the vultures.”

  “He will be pleased to have a captured American pilot.” He glanced down at B.J. “Especially a captured woman pilot.”

  Maxwell felt the situation slipping away from him. This was his fault. His own stupid bravado, roughing up the German, intimidating him into talking. It was payback time.

  “Let her go.” Maxwell forced himself to keep his voice calm. “I give you my word as an officer, if you release her, we will allow you to leave. You can go free.”

  He saw B.J. watching him, wondering whether he meant it.

  Rittmann wasn’t buying it. “She comes with me. Do not follow us or I cut her throat.”

  He began walking backward, forcing B.J. to match his steps.

  Maxwell watched them move away. He felt B.J.’s eyes on him, waiting to see what he would do. They were nearly into the bushes, slipping away in the darkness.

  He felt the weight of the Colt, more than two pounds, inert and useless as a stone. Another act of bravado, hauling around the clunky pistol that weighed twice as much as the more accurate Beretta. Even at close range, inside twenty yards, he was a lousy marksman with the .45. With any pistol, for that matter. He was a pilot, not a grunt.