The smile vanished, and he let the knife drop.
“The gun,” said the woman. “Drop it or the next bullet goes into your head.”
He released the pistol. It fell to the dirt with a plop.
Rittmann stared at the intruder. His eyes took in the blackened face, the flight suit, the diminutive size. She was holding an automatic pistol in both hands, ready to fire again. It was incredible. “You’re a woman?”
“You better believe it,” said Maxwell, rising to his feet. He gathered up Rittmann’s pistol and the knife. He looked down at his bloody sleeve. “Lieutenant Johnson, for the record, I am very glad to see you. I don’t suppose you could have gotten here a couple of minutes earlier?”
“Couldn’t run any faster,” said B.J. “You should have punched out closer to where I was.”
“I should’ve dodged the SAM. Then I wouldn’t be here.”
She looked the German over. “Who is he? He doesn’t seem like a very nice person.”
“This is Herr Rittmann,” said Maxwell. “Formerly of the East German Air Force. We’re going to get to know him very well. But first, you’ll have to excuse us while we finish some international business.”
“Business?” B.J. looked at him questioningly.
“A reciprocal trade matter.”
He tried not to telegraph what was coming, but at the last instant the German sensed it. The punch came straight from the shoulder, with all his strength behind it, augmented by anger and several gallons of adrenaline.
Rittmann tried to duck, but he was a microsecond too late. Maxwell’s fist caught him just beneath the right jaw.
The German let out a whooshing sound as he flipped backward, arms and legs askew.
B.J. stared at the unconscious man. “Skipper, is that a civilized way to treat a prisoner of war?”
“Who said I was civilized?”
“Good point. I retract the question.”
Maxwell retrieved his Colt from Rittmann’s pocket. In the distance he could hear the rattle of automatic weapons. The marines were still shooting it out with the Sherji. The jets were no longer overhead.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
COLT .45
“It’s Maloney,” said the voice on the phone. “We need to talk.”
Claire could tell that he’d been drinking. She was at her desk, working on a dispatch to her bureau chief in Bahrain.
“About what?”
“Not on the phone. I’ll pick you up in front of your hotel in twenty minutes.”
She groaned. Of all the ways she could choose to spend an evening in scenic San‘a, going for a ride with a drunk was not one of them. “Is it urgent?”
“It has to do with the lucky guy you told me about.”
Claire’s heart froze. Something had happened to Sam. “I’ll be waiting at the lobby door.”
The relentless pinging stopped.
Three hours had elapsed since the Ilia Mourmetz settled into its hiding place beneath the littoral shelf. The Mourmetz’s passive listening equipment was hearing the steady passage of sub-hunting helicopters and S-3 Vikings.
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 has 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, Mr. 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 semiautomatic 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 7.62mm 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 space 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 semicircle around the sprawled body of Ilychin. Blood oozed from the purplish wound in the officer’s temple. His eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the overhead.