“Looked like southwest,” said Dugan, looking around in the rain. “Wherever the hell that is.”
Borgdanov smiled and said something to the sergeant, who patted a wooden case at his feet.
“Piraty left us nice compass,” Borgdanov said. “So we go southwest. But Dyed, I think you should drive. Ilya and I keep watch with guns.”
Dugan nodded, and moved to change places with the sergeant.
“I suggest one of you keep watch and the other start dumping the silver,” Dugan said, as he pointed the boat southwest. “Loaded like this in these seas, we’ll be lucky not to sink. Much less overtake anything.”
The Russians stared at the pile, reluctant to jettison the treasure.
“Don’t forget,” Dugan said, “some of the dead men on the ship may have handled this stuff. I doubt viruses prefer to live on silver, and it’s had a hell of a lot of water flushed over it, but make sure to keep your gloves on.”
The idea the silver might be contaminated ended the Russians’ reluctance, and Borgdanov jettisoned silver while the sergeant kept watch. As the boat lightened, Dugan increased speed, and the boat labored through the seas to the growl of the outboard.
Arabian Sea
Beside capsized Ocean Goliath
“I warned the fools to stay out of the shadow of the derrick,” Waabberi said to no one in particular, as he studied his band of bedraggled survivors. Miraculously, all of his men had survived the capsizing, except the drivers of the boats caught under the derrick. The survivors filled the five remaining boats to capacity, and floated together in a group in the lee of the overturned drillship, clustered around Waabberi’s boat.
“Beard of the Prophet,” Waabberi said. “If we were so unfortunate as to lose three boats, why did one of them have to be loaded with silver?”
“But Waabberi,” a pirate said, “only two boats perished under the derrick. The silver boat was farther aft. The strange men took it.”
“Strange men? What are you talking about, you fool? What strange men?”
“Big white men, dressed in orange,” the pirate said. “I looked up and saw—”
“And you’re telling me this now!” Waabberi screamed. “Why didn’t you tell me at the time?”
“I tried,” the man said. “But I was farthest away from the ship and I couldn’t get your attention. Then the gunfire from the ship drowned out my shouts, and the ship capsized. Then I was rescuing our brothers—”
“Enough,” Waabberi said. “Which way did they go?”
“I … I don’t know. I lost of them in the rain.”
Waabberi nodded and sat thinking to the combined soft muttering of the outboards, as the boats maintained station against wind and waves in the lee of the stricken drillship. Who were these strange men? Crewmen, no doubt; but where could they go? They didn’t have enough fuel to go far. They must be close by, even now.
“Stop the motors!” he shouted, and the five outboards sputtered to silence. “Now,” Waabberi said, “everyone listen. They can’t be far.”
Several men pointed at once, then Waabberi heard it himself—the distant sound of a straining outboard. He turned to his driver. “What direction is that?”
The man looked at his compass. “Southwest,” he said.
Waabberi nodded and took quick inventory of his little flotilla, grateful now that some of his men had ignored orders and left their weapons in the boats when they boarded the ship to load silver.
“Quickly,” he said, motioning over the fastest boat of the five and jumping aboard. “Three men here with me in the chase boat. The rest of you spread yourselves evenly among the other boats and follow. Unarmed men, get in the boat with the silver.” Waabberi looked at the driver of the boat loaded with silver. “You’ll be slow, so bring up the rear. Don’t take risks in these seas. We’ve little enough to show for our efforts, and I don’t want to lose any more silver. Is that clear?”
The man nodded as all the outboards roared to life, and Waabberi squatted in his own boat and pointed southwest.
Arabian Sea
5 miles southwest of Ocean Goliath
Dugan raised his free hand to shade his eyes from the bright sun reflecting off the water. They’d run out of the rainsquall a mile back, and it had been like switching on a light in a darkened room. The wind had calmed as well, and the sea was settling but still choppy, marked here and there with whitecaps. He shot a worried glance over his shoulder at the gray-white curtain of rain and took a chance on increasing speed.
The sun was a mixed blessing. No longer deluged by cooling rain, Dugan once again broiled in the survival suit, and saw sweat running down the Russians’ faces as well. He was contemplating stripping off the suit when a shout rang out in front of him.
“Dyed! There!” Borgdanov cried, just as the boat crested a wave. Dugan squinted into the distance in the direction of the Russian’s pointing finger.
He smiled as he made out the unmistakable profile of the Kyung Yang No. 173. His smile faded.
“She’s listing badly,” Dugan said.
“No matter,” Borgdanov replied. “I think is better to be on listing fishing boat than in middle of ocean on Zodiac with little fuel and no food and water, da?”
“I can’t argue with that,” Dugan said.
“How long before we catch her?” Borgdanov asked.
“Hard to say. She’s not making full speed, but neither are we. I’d guess maybe half an hour—less if the seas cooperate.”
Borgdanov nodded. “Is good—”
The sergeant yelled something to Borgdanov and pointed aft, and Dugan swiveled his head to see a pirate boat emerging from the rainsquall. As he watched, three more boats appeared out of the curtain of rain in quick succession. He looked forward to find the Russians checking their weapons.
“Can we beat piraty to fishing boat, Dyed?” Borgdanov asked.
“Doubtful,” Dugan said. “Not that it’ll make much difference.”
“Will make big difference,” Borgdanov said. “Is better platform to defend, and we add Anisimov’s gun to our firepower.”
“I’ll do my best.” Dugan increased speed, capsizing now the lesser risk.
Ten minutes later, it was obvious Dugan’s initial doubts were justified. For every yard they had gained on the fishing boat, the lead pirate seemed to gain a yard and a half on them, and the rest of the pirate boats weren’t far behind. Dugan noticed a fifth boat now, breaking the rain curtain and moving more slowly than the others. The pirates in the lead boat began a sporadic, if wildly inaccurate, fire in Dugan’s direction. He took no comfort in the poor marksmanship; when they got closer, it wouldn’t matter.
“I don’t think we’re going to make it to Kwok’s boat,” Dugan said. “And at this speed, we’re burning a lot of—”
The outboard began to sputter and cough, then stopped.
“—fuel,” Dugan finished, as his boat lost power and coasted down a wave.
Dugan tried unsuccessfully to restart the outboard, then threw a worried glance back at the pirates. He moved to the collapsible fuel bladder and opened the fill cap. There was a slight hiss as air rushed into the collapsed container, and Dugan released it from its securing straps, lifting and tilting it so that every last bit of fuel could drain through the attached hose to the outboard. He motioned the sergeant to take his place.
“Hold this up,” Dugan said. “Not much there, but we’ll go as far as we can.”
He returned to the outboard. It started on the second attempt.
Kyung Yang No. 173
Arabian Sea
The chief engineer kneeled in the bilge, shoulder deep in oily water as he groped beneath the water’s surface, searching by feel for the crack in the concrete patch. There! He’d found it again, and felt the rush of water on his fingertips. It was about 150 millimeters long from the feel of it. The thin wooden wedges he’d made should plug it enough for the bilge pump to catch up, then he could work on a more durable repair—if he cou
ld get one of the damn things tapped into the crack to stay this time. Broken remnants of half a dozen wedges floated on the water sloshing around him, testimony to his failure so far.
He closed his eyes and held his breath in anticipation as the boat rolled to starboard, and the water rose over his head. He grabbed a grating support with his left hand to steady himself, but kept his right hand firmly pressed to the crack—he wasn’t going to lose contact with it again.
The boat rolled back almost upright, and as his head broke water, the chief braced his knees against the tank top and threw up his left hand. The crewman assisting him on the deck plates above leaned down to press a wooden wedge into it.
“Last one, Chief,” the man yelled over the engine noise.
The chief nodded. He couldn’t afford to lose this one, there was no time to make more. He lowered the wedge beneath the water and worked the thin edge into the crack by feel, using both hands. Once started, he then held it there against the incoming rush of water with his left hand as he reached up his right toward the deck plates. He was coated head to toe from the oil floating in the bilge, and he felt a rag in his open palm as his assistant above tried to wipe the oil away to improve his grip. Then came the firm slap in his palm, and he gripped the hammer handle.
He drew in another deep breath and closed his eyes as the boat rolled and the bilge water enveloped him again, and he groped underwater with the hammer until he felt the top of the thin wedge. He tapped tentatively and felt the wedge ease through the fingers of his left hand, deeper into the crack. He tapped again, just enough to seat the plug but not break the thin wood, as he had on his previous attempts. It only had to hold long enough to get the bilge pumped; he mustn’t overdo it again.
He made a final light tap, his left fingers on the wood telling him the wedge was no longer moving into the crack, then he let go of it, just as the boat rolled back upright and his oily head broke the water.
“Got it!” he shouted to his helper, and started to climb out of the bilge. No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the wedge popped to the surface, borne away into a maze of piping on the wave of water rolling through the bilge. He considered trying to find it, but knew it was futile. He grimaced and started for the wheelhouse. He had to convince Kwok to stop the boat.
As he exited the engine room onto the open deck, he looked aft and saw the parade following his own boat. There was no mistaking the orange-clad figures in the lead boat. He rushed up to the wheelhouse, finding Kwok staring aft.
“Dugan and the Russians are—”
“I can see them, you fool,” Kwok said. “And they’re leading the damned pirates right to us! But what’re you doing here? Is the leak fixed?”
“No. Our speed’s making the leak worse. I can’t repair it unless we stop.”
Kwok looked aft again. “In ten minutes it’ll be over, I think. We must maintain our speed until then. After that, it’ll be safe to stop.”
“Wha … what do you mean?”
Kwok pointed and the engineer squinted. The rainsquall had moved farther north, revealing the capsized drillship. Hovering over it was a black dot.
“That’ll be a Russian helicopter,” Kwok said. “If we can maintain our distance, I think they’ll take care of our pirate friends. But if the pirates get here first, I’m sure we’ll become human shields again.”
“But Dugan and—”
“Screw Dugan!” Kwok shouted. “He’s the one that put us in danger to start with. Now he’s leading the pirates right back to us, so I think it only fair he helps us for a change. When the pirates catch him, they’ll slow down to deal with him and the Russians. If he and those crazy Russians resist, all the better—it’ll slow the pirates even more. And if the Russian chopper arrives while they are all mixed together and kills them all”—Kwok shrugged—”so be it. It’s none of our affair.”
The chief looked down at the bound Russian.
“That chopper is undoubtedly attached to a Russian ship, probably on the way here now. How do you intend to explain him?” The chief nodded at the Russian.
Kwok shrugged again. “If by some miracle Dugan and his crazy Russians survive, we’ll just release the corporal here, claim it was a misunderstanding, and apologize. They’ll be angry, but I doubt much will happen. But if Dugan and his companions perish, no one knows the corporal’s here. I doubt the helicopter has fuel to stay for a prolonged period, so we’ll have some time after they leave before the Russian ship arrives. We’ll just wrap our friend here in chains and slip him over the side, as if he never existed.”
Kwok smiled at the chief, pleased with his own cleverness. “When the Russians arrive, we are simply a poor fishing boat that was attacked by pirates. If you can get the leak repaired, we will continue to port. If not, we ask the Russians for help. Either way, we can forget we ever met Dugan and his crazy Russians.”
“Yo … you’re insane! I won’t be involved with murder!” the chief said.
Kwok narrowed his eyes. “I suggest you rethink that position,” he said. “Or you’ll go over the side with your new Russian friend. Now get below where you belong and keep us afloat. I’ll tell you when you can stop the engine.”
Russian Ka-29TB helicopter
1 northeast of Ocean Goliath
Arabian Sea
The pilot stayed in the clear air behind the rapidly moving front, wary of any developments that might endanger his craft. He dropped low to the water and moved toward the plume of black, greasy smoke. The drillship was lying port side down, her hull awash, and as the pilot reached the ship and hovered over her, she lost her fight with gravity and slipped below the waves. The pilot circled and keyed his mike.
“Momma Bear, this is Baby Bear. How do you copy? Over.”
One hundred nautical miles to the east, the comm center on the Russian naval vessel Admiral Vinogradov answered. “Baby Bear, this is Momma Bear. We read you five by five. What is your situation? Over.”
“We had to divert to avoid weather,” the pilot said. “We’re presently over the site of a large drillship that burned and sank. No apparent survivors. Request you come to this position to extend search. Do you copy? Over.”
“Baby Bear, we copy and confirm we’re en route to your present position. What of your original mission? Over.”
“There is activity to my southwest. En route to investigate. Over,” the pilot said.
“Acknowledged, Baby Bear. Keep us informed. Momma Bear, out.”
Arabian Sea
300 yards astern of
Kyung Yang No. 173
Dugan flinched as a bullet whizzed by his ear.
“Not to be critical,” Dugan yelled to Borgdanov over the roar of the outboard, “but maybe you should start shooting back at these assholes.”
“Nyet,” said Borgdanov. “Is waste of ammunition. Do not worry, Dyed. We open fire when they get closer.”
The outboard coughed to a halt just as he finished speaking.
“Well, that’ll be anytime now,” Dugan said. “We just ran out of fuel. Tell me when to start worrying.”
Arabian Sea
700 yards astern of
Kyung Yang No. 173
Waabberi raised the binoculars and fiddled with the focus until the distant dot revealed itself as a Russian chopper. He shifted his gaze to the following boats, and watched them break pursuit and turn to run for the protection of the rainsquall as each identified the threat. Being caught on the open sea by a Russian chopper was a pirate’s worst nightmare. It was survivable with hostages as shields, but when they caught a boat manned solely by pirates, the Russians were merciless.
He looked after the fleeing boats. The fools would never make the protection of the squall line. The chopper was too fast.
But how had the Russians found them? He turned back to study the orange men’s boat. Someone must have called for help, but who? It couldn’t be the fishing boat—they’d been chasing it only a few minutes, far too short a time for anyone to respond to
a distress call. But the orange men came from the drillship, and they must have a radio. And if the Russians were coming to rescue the orange men, the way to avoid immediate and violent death at the muzzles of Russian guns was to get as close to the orange men as possible, whoever they might be.
He turned back to his quarry, just as the orange men’s boat died.
“Faster,” he said to his driver.
“But Waabberi,” the driver said, “we should follow the others—”
“Silence, fool!” Waabberi said. “Our only hope is hostages, and the hostages are there. Keep at least one of them alive,” he yelled above the outboard.
Kyung Yang No. 173
Arabian Sea
The chief engineer stared down at the water sloshing in the bilge. They were listing over ten degrees, and each roll of the boat brought water up to the deck plates on the starboard side of the engine room, dangerously close to shorting out the electric motor of the general-service pump, his last remaining way to pump bilges. This was lunacy and Kwok was an idiot. He touched his pocketknife through the cloth of his sodden coveralls, and made a decision.
He climbed from the engine room to the wheelhouse, taking the steps two at a time. His knife was open in his hand as he burst through the wheelhouse door.
Kwok turned, his scowl turning to concern as he saw the knife. “Yo … you dare attack me?” he shouted, as moved to where the Russian’s assault rifle lay on deck against the wheelhouse bulkhead.
The chief ignored Kwok and stooped to slice the tape at the Russian’s wrists and ankles. The Russian sprang up, covering the distance to Kwok in two long strides.
He looked at Kwok with contempt. “To shoot, Kwok,” he said as he disarmed the Korean, “you must first move safety selector.”
“I … I meant no harm,” Kwok said. “I left the drillship to save us all. You too. Bu … but I was wrong. It was a misunderstanding. I am very sorry.”
The Russian smiled at Kwok, then shrugged. Kwok visibly relaxed seconds before a great ham of a fist smashed him in the face.
Deadly Coast (A Tom Dugan Novel) Page 25
