“Apology accepted,” the Russian said, looking down to where Kwok lay on the deck, his face already purpling. He aimed a savage kick into the little Korean’s midsection, and then turned back to the chief.
“You,” he said. “Tie this bastard up, then tell me what is happening.”
“We are sinking, and your countrymen are coming,” the chief said, as he fished a roll of duct tape from his pocket and tossed it to the Russian. “And tie him up yourself. I have to stop us from sinking.”
The chief turned on his heel and rushed to the engine room.
Arabian Sea
250 yards astern of
Kyung Yang No. 173
Unarmed, Dugan crouched as low as he could in the boat, then realized how stupid it was to expect an inflatable boat to provide any protection from a bullet. He scooted over to put as much of the outboard as possible between himself and the pirates. Borgdanov and the sergeant knelt on either side of him, calmly firing an occasional three-round burst back at the pirates. Dugan looked up at Borgdanov.
“For Christ’s sake,” Dugan said. “There’s only one left. Use the RPG!”
“Nyet,” Borgdanov replied without looking down. “He is still too far for RPG. We must be sure of kill shot. Anyway, chopper is coming soon, and the piraty are terrible shots. At this distance, it would be accident if they hit anything.”
Just as the Russian finished speaking, bullets stitched the starboard tube of the inflatable, followed by the hiss of escaping air. Borgdanov looked down and shrugged. “Even piraty get lucky sometime,” he said. “But maybe you are right. We are not moving and they are coming fast.” He glanced over. “Ilya, the RPG.”
Arabian Sea
Kyung Yang No. 173
Anisimov balanced himself on the canted open deck of the listing fishing boat, holding his assault rifle and looking for an opportunity to add his fire to that of his comrades. But it wasn’t to be. Without her forward motion to maintain rudder control, the Kyung Yang No. 173 was wallowing in the remaining swell, making her a very unstable firing platform. Given the range to the pirate boat and the fact that he would be firing past his comrades, he stood as much chance of hitting them as he did the pirates. He lowered his weapon and glanced up at the approaching chopper.
He did a double take. The chopper had stopped its approach and was hovering. What’s wrong? Surely they can see the situation. They should be closing on the piraty with their mini-gun to provide cover for the major and —
Then it hit him, and he rushed for the wheelhouse and the radio.
Arabian Sea
250 yards astern of
Kyung Yang No. 173
Dugan peeked around the outboard and watched the pirate boat go airborne as it topped a swell fifty yards behind them, moving at full throttle now. He glanced at the sergeant on his knees beside him, the RPG to his shoulder, and willed him to pull the trigger. There was a muffled thump, and he watched the round fly from the weapon and plunge into the sea, thirty feet from their own boat.
“Mat’ ublyudkek,” the sergeant muttered, as he tossed the now-useless weapon over the side and reached for his assault rifle.
“What the hell?” Dugan said.
“RPG is dud,” Borgdanov said from Dugan’s opposite side, continuing to stare aft as he fired at the pirates. “Where is chopper, Dyed? We could use help now.”
Dugan rolled on his back and searched the sky. He spotted the chopper just as it went into a hover, and watched, waiting for it to charge forward and take out the pirates. What’s he waiting for?
“Ahh … Andrei. This guy’s not acting too friendly. If you have any secret hey-I’m-a-Russian-too signals, now would be the time to trot them out.”
Russian Ka-29TB helicopter
Over Kyung Yang No. 173
Arabian Sea
The co-pilot peered through the sight. The heat-seeker would do the work, but the range was relatively short and he had to ensure he got the weapon close enough to acquire the target. He was intent on his task, undistracted by the sudden chatter on the radio. Only slowly did it penetrate.
“Russian chopper! Abort! Abort!” a frantic voice screamed in Russian. “You are targeting friendlies!”
But he’d already launched.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Arabian Sea
250 yards astern of
Kyung Yang No. 173
Dugan sensed something was wrong and was rising even before the flame bloomed from the chopper.
“Get DOWN, Dyed,” screamed Borgdanov, as Dugan rose between the two Russians firing at the advancing pirate boat.
Dugan, with no time to explain, placed a hand on the shoulder of each Russian and shoved with all his strength. The surprised Russians cursed as they tumbled into the water, and Dugan threw himself backward over the outboard. He was still in midair when the missile struck. The concussion drove the air from his lungs, and he plunged beneath the surface of the water just as a fireball rolled over it.
Disoriented, he surfaced seconds later, more from the buoyancy of the survival suit than from his own efforts. He felt a strong hand on his arm, and turned his head to find the sergeant towing him toward the charred remains of their deflating Zodiac. Soon, he was clinging to the side of the damaged craft with the two Russians, looking at a debris field where the pirate boat had been.
“Wh … what happened?” Dugan asked. “I was sure he was aiming for us.”
“Maybe he was, Dyed,” Borgdanov said. “But piraty boat was very near with engine at full power. Our own motor was cooling. So. I think heat-seeker made targeting correction.” He looked at the smoldering remains of the Zodiac. “Even so, was very close. Being underwater and in suits saved us, I think.”
Dugan looked up, searching the sky.
“Let’s hope the chopper doesn’t come back to finish the job,” he said.
Kyung Yang No. 173
Arabian Sea
Oblivious to the VHF squawking demands that he identify himself, Anisimov watched in horror through the wheelhouse window as the fireball erupted on the sea behind him. Then as the fire dissipated, he saw an orange head bob to the surface, then two more, and all three moved to the charred remains of the first Zodiac. Relief flooded over him, and he heard the radio for the first time.
“—demand you identify yourself at once. Over.”
Anisimov started to key the mike, then stopped. He looked down at his black utilities, devoid of rank markings but clearly Russian Special Forces. Instinctively, he touched the Russian tricolor flag patch on his shoulder. The Russian government didn’t particularly like it when their elite soldiers resigned to become private contractors, and Anisimov and the others had done so under assumed names. And he was quite sure that Russian officials would like it even less if they knew that private contractors were impersonating active-duty Russian personnel. When Major Borgdanov accepted the assignment, the clear understanding was that there would be no possible contact with regular Russian forces. This could be tricky.
Anisimov stared at the mike. What did the major always say? Ah yes, when your back was to the wall, attack! Surprise assault is always the best defense. He walked to the wheelhouse window, where his uniform was visible to the hovering chopper and keyed the mike.
“Russian helicopter over my position! Identify yourself at once! Over,” he said.
“This is flight Bravo Three from Russian naval vessel Admiral Vinogradov. I say again. Identify yourself,” came the reply.
Anisimov ignored the request. “What is your name and rank?” he demanded.
“Identify yourself at once. Over,” the chopper pilot said.
“Very well,” Anisimov said. “This is Colonel Alexei Vetrov, Federal Security Service, Special Operations Group Alpha. Now. What is your name and rank? Over.”
There was a long pause before the pilot responded, his voice tentative.
“Th … this is Captain Lieutenant Ivan Demidov,” the pilot said. “Wh … what are you doing here, Colonel,
if I might ask?”
“Nyet! You may not ask,” Anisimov replied. “We are on classified mission, involving something you may have seen on way here. Beyond that, I cannot discuss on open radio. Is this clear, Captain Lieutenant Demidov?”
“Da, Colonel,” Demidov said. “Do … do you require assistance? Would you like us to pick up the three men in the water?”
Anisimov hesitated and looked back at the charred Zodiac, and then around the fishing boat. Major Borgdanov and company seemed to be all right. The fishing boat was in bad shape, but if it sank, the Russians were nearby and he could always put out a distress call before taking to the raft. Better to get the chopper away for now.
“Nyet, Captain Lieutenant. Not at this time,” Anisimov said. “What is your mission?”
“To rescue Korean fishing boat and arrest piraty,” the pilot replied.
“Consider the first part of your mission successful,” Anisimov said. “But I believe most of the piraty are escaping as we speak.”
“We’ll catch them, Colonel,” said the pilot. “Though I suspect they’ll all be killed resisting arrest.”
Anisimov paused. He had no idea what had transpired on the drillship, nor if any of the pirates had been exposed to the virus. If they had, the results could be catastrophic. If they hadn’t—well, they were still murdering pirates, weren’t they?
“That outcome would be … helpful to our mission, Captain Lieutenant,” Anisimov said. “In fact, it would be most helpful if these piraty disappeared without a trace. Is my meaning clear?”
“What piraty, Colonel?” the pilot asked. “Now, if there is nothing more, we’ll undertake routine patrol to north and return to ship.”
Thirty minutes later, Dugan and the two Russians sat in the charred, half-deflated Zodiac alongside the listing Kyung Yang No. 173. The seas had abated to a slight swell, and the two stricken vessels drifted side by side, tethered by a single thin line. Anisimov stood on the canting deck of the fishing boat and tossed Sergeant Denosovitch a plastic jug, as Dugan and Borgdanov opened cans and sloshed clear liquid around the crippled inflatable.
“That ought to do it,” Dugan said. “We’ll leave the rest of the stuff in the cans. It’ll go up quick enough when it all starts burning.”
He surveyed their handiwork. The air was thick with the pungent smell of paint thinner, mineral spirits, and whatever other flammables Anisimov had scrounged from the paint locker. They’d splashed it all over the boat until it puddled on the floorboards, and then stacked open cans of the liquid that remained in the middle of the boat.
“You got the bleach, Sergeant?” Dugan asked.
“Da,” the sergeant said, and held up a large plastic jug in each hand.
“Let’s get to it then,” Dugan said, reaching for one of the jugs.
The three took turns helping each other douse the outsides of their survival suits with bleach. When all the suits were thoroughly wetted, Dugan nodded, and the men stripped the suits off and tossed them over the cans in the middle of the boat. Their underwear joined the pile, and they leaped, naked, to the deck of the fishing boat.
Anisimov had things prepared—buckets with a solution of strong soap and water, brushes, and sponges. One man stood still while the other two scrubbed him and flushed him with seawater. When they were done with that, each stepped under the powerful flow of the temporary shower Anisimov had rigged by securing a fire-hose nozzle to the handrail of the upper deck.
“That should do it,” Dugan said, as he stepped from beneath the torrent and signaled Anisimov to turn off the water. He walked to the rail and untied the line holding the crippled Zodiac. Anisimov appeared with a flare gun, the other two Russians close behind. Dugan waited until the Zodiac was twenty feet away.
“Do it, Corporal,” Dugan said. Anisimov nodded and fired, and the Zodiac burst into flames.
Isolation Unit
Sickbay
USS Bunker Hill (CG-52)
Arabian Sea
“Christ, I’ll be glad to get out of here,” Dugan said to Borgdanov across the tiny room they shared with the other two Russians.
Borgdanov shrugged. “Is not so bad,” he said. “Is only three more days, and is much better than the two days we spend on fishing boat, da? For sure food here is better.” He shuddered. “I am not so fond of kimchi.”
Dugan nodded. He was glad to be off the fishing boat, however impatient he was with the current situation. With his help, the Korean chief engineer managed to get the leak stopped. A call to Ward had done the rest. They set a westerly course for Aden to get them out of the Russians’ immediate operating area, while Ward arranged an extraction. Two days later, a Sea Hawk helicopter had lowered biohazard suits for Dugan and the Russians, not to protect them but to isolate them from contact with others.
They’d been winched aboard the chopper one by one, with Dugan the last to leave. Before going, he’d read the newly cooperative Kwok the riot act, reminding him of the realities. He would be shadowed by satellites and aircraft all the way to Aden, and if he changed course or attempted in any way to contact another vessel, he would be sunk without warning by a cruise missile. Ward’s superiors had been much less reticent about authorizing decisive action after they’d learned what they were dealing with.
Given the speed of the fishing boat, the incubation period for the virus would elapse before the vessel reached Aden, and there she would be met by a medical team to assess the crew’s health before releasing them.
“What about charter and repairs, Dugan?” Kwok had asked. “You promised.”
Dugan had handed Kwok a card. “Mail your bill for the charter and reasonable expenses here, and it will get paid, Kwok,” Dugan said, glancing at the chief engineer. “As long as it’s accompanied by a signed statement from the chief here that you didn’t retaliate against him and the other crewmen that helped us.”
“This is blackmail!” Kwok said.
“Your call, Kwok. Money or revenge,” Dugan countered, leaving the little Korean sputtering on deck as the chopper hoisted him skyward.
“Do not worry so, Dyed,” Borgdanov said, pulling Dugan back to reality. “We will be finished incubation period soon, and by that time we arrive in Harardheere. Blake says executions have stopped since piraty now know about our hostages, and I think it is not bad thing to give them time to think. Like you say in English, give them time to boil, da?”
Dugan smiled, despite his mood. “I think you mean, give them time to stew,” he said.
Borgdanov shrugged. “Boil. Stew. Whatever. How you cook piraty’s ass is not so important, I think—as long as you cook it.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
M/T Phoenix Lynx
At anchor
Harardheere, Somalia
“QUIET!” Zahra shouted for the third time, slapping his open hand on the conference table.
Eleven faces snapped toward him, surprised and quieted by the explosive sound. Surprised looks turned to scowls as the men glared down the long table.
“And just who’re you to give orders, Zahra,” one said. “We’re all equals here.”
“Even among equals someone must maintain order,” Zahra said.
The man sneered. “So you’ve appointed yourself. Is that it?” There were grumbles of agreement.
“I appointed myself to nothing,” Zahra said evenly. “When these ships full of our brothers arrived, their captors contacted me. These people made it clear they’ll only deal with a single point of contact. I didn’t seek them. As soon as the situation became clear to me, I called you all here to Harardheere.”
Zahra kept his face impassive and watched reactions as he spoke. In truth, he was elated the new arrivals contacted him first. As the possibilities had occurred to him over the last week, he’d become giddy with anticipation. If only he could pull it off. He sighed inwardly. But first he had to leash this pack of hyenas.
“And now that we’re here, Zahra,” asked another man, “just what would you have us do
? We’ve come the length of the Somali coast to gather, and now you propose giving up all of our captives and half the ships. That’s ridiculous. If they give us two ships and a hundred or so captives, we should give them back the same.”
“I’ve been dealing with them for over a week,” Zahra said. “This American Blake is a tough negotiator, and this fellow Dugan who arrived yesterday is worse. He threatens to take all the men to Liberia. He even joked that for ten thousand dollars he could ensure they all get the death penalty.”
“Savages,” muttered a man down the table.
“He’s bluffing,” the first man scoffed. “Western governments will never permit that. Many European governments won’t even turn our captured brothers over to any country with the death penalty.”
“But we aren’t dealing with Europeans,” Zahra said. “At least not in name. They showed me papers documenting themselves to be Liberians, but in truth I don’t know who they are. There are both Americans and Russians among them, but I suspect the Russians are mercenaries. It doesn’t matter. As long as Liberia is willing to provide them cover, I doubt any of the Western powers will make a fuss. In fact, I’m quite sure they’re secretly happy they don’t have to deal with the problem themselves. Make no mistake, my brothers, these Liberians are serious people. They allowed me to speak with a few of the prisoners, who told me the Russians murdered quite freely and laughed in the process.”
“But their offer is outrageous! We can get more ransom—”
“Can we?” Zahra asked, cutting the man off. “Thanks to the al-Shabaab fanatics and their lunacy with the American ship, there’s now a UN moratorium on the payment of ransoms. One which hasn’t been broken despite the fact that we’ve executed over twenty hostages. That means even if owners and insurers are willing to deal with us, as these Liberians seem to be, it’s now impossible for them to process the necessary transactions through their banks. I doubt we see another cent in ransom money, at least until things cool down, and that may take months, or even longer.” Zahra stopped and stared down the table. “That makes the offer of two ships full of gasoline very attractive. The asset is already here; no government can stop its delivery. Together, they carry over one hundred and fifty million dollars’ worth of petrol, even if we sell it below market price.”
Deadly Coast (A Tom Dugan Novel) Page 26
